SYOC: AntiHeroes (closed)
by suicideblonde99
Summary: In the face of a new evil, Hades decides to assemble a team of the world's most dangerous and villainous incarcerated demigods to fight alongside the campers of Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter. Armed with a quest and forces of both good and bad, will victory be achieved? [Kind of like a Suicide Squad x Percy Jackson]. Set after the Giant War and Trials of Apollo.
1. 00

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN PJO. EVERYTHING belongs to RR.**

 **SYOC info is below.**

 **SONG: Tennis Corde by Lorde [Flume Remix]**

 ** _EPIGRAPH:_**

 _"Heroes don't exist. Even if they did, I wouldn't be one of them."_

 _-_ Brodi Ashton, Everneath.

 ** _0.0_**

 _Location: Mt. Olympus, the top of the Empire State Building._

The clouds gather in clumps of heavy greyness, which only parts when it's giving way to strong gusts of wind blowing in the direction of a floating mountain amongst the atmosphere. The mountain is topped off with a massive, grand pantheon glimmering despite the dark and below, every valley is lit up in rows of yellow lanterns that from a distance looks like stars. It is dark so not much can be seen but during the day, when sunlight is cast warmly upon its inhabitants and the mortal souls below, one can be guaranteed it is very beautiful with the many delicate arches and clean white cobblestone pavements, fields of fresh flowers and lush gardens with crisp, short grass blades, cropped to perfection, as if someone has personally trimmed the grass with small scissors.

Beautiful people dress in Greek _chitons_ and _peploses,_ the white sheets of long robes sweeping the streets as night markets and festivals explode with activity- the Muses singing as lyres pluck to their harmonies, nymphs, and spirits- all servants of the Gods- danced and mingled, while minor gods gossiped, eating and drinking from tables clothed in white silk, which offers gold vases and plates overflowing with Ancient Greek cuisine consisting of the Mediterranean triad: bread, wine and olive oil. Everybody seem in a celebratory mood, which is understandable as it is the winter solstice and since it's been two years since the defeat of Gaea, people are happy to celebrate the era of peace and prosperity that hasn't been shattered.

Well, at least not yet.

In the throne room of Olympus, the Gods are communing upon themselves, discussing when Hades, Lord of the Dead, rise from his throne and approach the middle. The Gods immediately stop talking as they notice Hades taking centre stage, a rarity since the Lord of the Dead usually try to draw as little attention to himself as much as possible.

"Brother," Hades sounds, his voice echoing deeply through the halls, grabbing people's attentions. "We should be discussing the matters concerning the Wallace boy."

Suddenly, the easy, light mood disrupts at the mention of the topic. Tension pours thickly into the room, like sweet sickly honey, and everybody is trapped in its sticky substance. Zeus straightens in his throne, his muscular physique rubbing against the glimmering gilded chair, and stare- or glare, any of the adjectives fit- at his brother with his stormy grey eyes, narrowing as Hades fix him with eyes just as cold.

"Do you have any information?" Zeus asks harshly, like a commander demanding for war reports.

"The Wallace Boy is exactly what we fear," Hades pauses, mostly for dramatic effect: "A product of Kronos."

The room stir in mass befuddlement. Athena, who is cladded in a mass of Greek satin and armour, tuts. "Impossible," she snarls, shaking her head. "Kronos is dead. That Jackson boy took care of him three years ago before Gaea."

"I know," Hades snaps at her, "But I'm afraid that during the time of Kronos's presence on mortal ground, he- in the form of Luke Castellan- must've procreated."

"But that Wallace boy is sixteen," point out Hephaestus logically, "Kronos existed three years ago. The boy should've been only three years old. It doesn't correlate."

Hades nods at Hephaestus in understanding, acknowledging his very potent point and furthering on: "I gather that too but my son, Nico Di Angelo, trace back his origins and saw birth records that went as far as 2002. I'm afraid Kronos must've sent the child back in time, using the full extent of his powers, as sort of an insurance policy."

Zeus flings into violent swearing spree, raging spectacularly in a string of Greek and Latin curses, the roar of thunder and lightning crackling as he bangs his fist on the arm of his throne. When he finally calm down, he zeroes onto Hades: "So what do we do now?"

Apollo, who has been sitting leisurely on his throne with his feet prop upon the arm, pull out an earbud out his ear, and break his silence by raising his eyebrows at Hades, "Okay, dude, I get this guy is like a Kronos spawn but I don't understand why it's such a big deal. I mean, he hasn't done anything wrong yet, right?"

"It's not what he _has_ done," Artemis berates her brother, whacking him in the head with her quiver, "It's what he's _going_ to do."

"My sources," Hades interrupts not too politely, sending a chilling glare to Apollo for attempting to dissolve Hades's argument, "has told me he's been involved in mortal-related attacks recently. The France Bombings were done with Greek Fire, the Boston Massacres were due to Celestial Bronze bullets infused with titanium and uranium and the Mist's weakening has been more severe than ever. Just last week an entire school assembly saw one of the campers from Camp Half-Blood battling a Lycanthrope. I fear that these attacks and happenings are only the beginning. We've learnt our lessons in the two previous wars. We cannot afford more carnage than ever, especially with the growth of population amounting in the Underworld-" Hades adds, bristling in annoyance, "-and we need to act now before the situation becomes out of control."

"So call the demigods," suggests Ares insouciantly as he tosses a knife up in the air casually, expertly grabbing the handle every time gravity brings it back down. "Using those little punks always work."

"May I suggest," Hades prompts again in a business-like facade, "another option as well?"

Zeus regards Hades suspiciously and the animosity between the two brothers heighten once more. "What?"

"Katadiki PenitentiaryFor Half-Bloods." The words seem to have sort of an effect on the Gods, as everybody began talking almost all at once. The general tone of everybody's conversation are a mixture of nervous anticipation and unanimous disagreeing.

"You're joking," laughed Poseidon and when he didn't see a smile come unto Hades face (granted, Hades does not smile that much after all), he tries it again: "Aren't you? That place is for the worst of our children, the worst of the demigods. They're _villains,_ not heroes. You don't ask a villain to do a hero job."

Hades shrugs and his robes shifts, the souls following the motion of the cloth, "Why not? These are the worst of our children. They think differently and maybe they'll understand how the Wallace Boy works, sniff out his strategies and tactics before he uses it on anybody else. The half-bloods are efficient, _yes,_ but it comes at a high cost- a high cost of lives, carnage, and despair. Maybe using these villains might mean a lower death toll, a more strategic means of lowering reconstruction, rehabilitation and even avoiding further destruction."

A silence settles thickly on the Gods, like soft hands closing in on them and holding them captive.

"It's not a bad idea," Athena interjects, out of nowhere, much to everybody's surprise. Hades looks at her with understandable perplexion but for a rare moment, smile at her because she is vouching for his ideas. "But assuming we put these demigods under heavy supervision, make sure they don't commit any crimes and collaborate with the campers of both Roman and Greek camps, what makes you think they'll cooperate? There needs to be some motivation for them to work for us."

"We can free them," Hades mentions confidently, without a waver in his voice, even though the expressions on the other Gods deems Hades with _are you crazy_ looks "After they've done what we ask them to and cooperate without any hassle, consider them forgiven."

They murmur upon themselves, stroking their chins in deep contemplation while talking amongst each other in low voices, blurring into a monotonous buzz in Hades's ears. Tingles prickle up Hades's neck in annoyance and the souls in the seams of his black robes start sliding and rubbing across his body, agitated, embodying his emotions but Hades tries to stifle his irritation as he knows this is a particularly sensitive subject with the Gods, especially since most of the inmates of Katadiki Prison are children of the Olympian Gods.

You see after the war, the demigods loyal to Gaea and Kronos has made their own little paramilitary groups in the memories of their old patrons, trying to wreak their own little havoc and stage their own mini-rebellions. They were inevitably squashed down and captured but nobody had no idea what to do with them until Chiron devised an idea for a prison, a sort of rehabilitation centre for dangerous demigods. It's only been a year since the prison has been in used but it's been taking up way too much space in the Underworld and with the recent tragedies in the mortal world, Hades need as much solutions as possible to solve the situation of congestion. _Honestly,_ the paperwork for it is just ghastly!

"We have come to a conclusion," Zeus announce thunderously- no pun intended, bringing everyone's attention back to the elephant in the room. "We'll agree to do this but you're overseeing the entire operation."

"Of course, my lord," Hades has to bite his tongue from the urge to pull an unpleasant face as he spits out the 'My Lord' part, stretching his features into sort of a strained _thank-you_ smile to avoid any hostilities. "I'll have my enquiries working on it immediately."

"And we'll need a name for this operation," Zeus reminds Hades, "Any suggestions?"

Hades tilt his head to level his gaze with the other Gods and smile chillingly. "What about AntiHeroes?"

* * *

 ** _so_ the premise is relatively simple: suicide squad meets percy jackson. i didn't really want to do a crossover but i thought how cool it'd be to have villain demigods. like SRSLY. because demigods are meant to be heroes but what if they weren't? what if they were fucked up indviduals who killed people and shit? WHAT IF THERE'S A PRISON FOR THEM?**

 **because i was re-reading the lost hero and then piper was like: do godly parents ground their kids in the underworld or smth?**

 **and i got hit by the idea like a thousand ton truck, like ALRIGHT. MILLION DOLLAR IDEA. I'M INSPIRED. that aside, below is the set of rules and the form. but first, the rules because anarchism doesn't always work. :)**

 **ULES**

1\. Review before submitting. I want to see what you think of my writing style and the setting of the story.

2\. Send OCs through PM only. The reason for this is because if I have an enquiry on your character and you're a Guest

3\. Detail is appreciated. Please put some love into those characters.

4\. No carbon copies of the original cast. You can have similarities. For example: So and so is broody and mysterious, like Nico, but I also want different characters. Make sure you make them INTERESTING. Racial diversity is also extremely important. Don't be afraid to be very liberal to your characters- make them gay, transgender, I don't care. Actually, a transgender character sounds pretty lit.

-Sues and Gary-Stus. This is pretty self-explanatory. I mean, you're in Fanfiction and you have no idea what a Mary Sue is?

6\. There are six spots for the main roles (3 girls, 3 boys) but even if you didn't make the main roles, you might get supporting cast [think Clarisse, Drew, et cetera]. Pertaining to my third and fourth rule, the more detail and the more interesting your character is the most likely chance you'll get a spot. This won't be a first-come-first-serve basis.

7\. Speaking of characters, you can make them relate to the original cast but not directly. For example, your character could be a cousin of Leo from his mother's side or something like that but you can't be a sister or a brother as that complicates things.

9\. In order to make sure you have read the rules, please put 'i like pizza' at the end of your form.

 **ALSO, THE FORM IS ON MY PROFILE! I REPEAT IT'S ON MY PROFILE.**

* * *

 **General**

Full Name (First, Middle, & Last):

Nickname:

Age (12-21):

Gender:

Sexuality (also please state if they're in or out of the closet):

 **Appearance**

Weight:

Height:

Skintone:

Race:

Hair (Length, style and anything else you want to put):

Eye (Color, shape anything you want):

Clothes:

Facial Structure:

Tattoos/Scars/Birthmarks:

Anything Else:

Any celebrity look alike?:

 **Mental/Emotional**

Personality (Be descriptive- a paragraph MINIMUM):

Quirks:

Likes:

Dislikes:

Fears:

Hobbies:

Secrets:

Dreams for the future:

Introvert/Extrovert:

Optimist/Pessimist/Realist:

Fatal Flaw:

 **Background**

History (if they're a prisoner in Katadiki Penitentiary, please explain how they got there and why. If they're a regular camper, you can explain how they got to the camps]

Homelife:

Mortal Parent:

Divine Parent:

Roman/Greek:

Other Family:

Hometown:

Relationship with mortal parent:

Relationship with divine parent:

 **Battle**

Weapon/s:

Powers:

Armor:

Magical Items:

Skills:

Fighting Style:

How they act in battle (Both strategically and mentally):

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

 **Misc**

Anything you want to see in the plot involving your character:

Theme Song?:

Thoughts on Gods:

Thoughts on Demigods:

Thoughts on Mortals:

Quotes:

Anything Else:


	2. 01

**so the chapter is here and it is rather lengthy and the only reason why it took so long was because of how much of a perfectionist i am when it comes to writing this.** **the finalized version of the character list has not come because i don't want to put up a character list before the deadline, which i decided it's gonna be 20th of August. i've received TONS of great characters however I'm still open for more.**

 **HOWEVER, if YOU WANT TO SUBMIT A CHARACTER PLEASE NOTE THAT MY MAIN PRIORITY IS NOW ROMANS. I have 13 characters, 10 Greeks and 3 Romans and I'm not only looking for a 'prisoner' now but a regular camper as it also involves regular, ordinary, sane, functioning campers of Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter.**

 **SO IF YOU WANT TO SUBMIT A CHARACTER, THE PRIORITY LIST WILL BE:**

 **1\. Ordinary Campers**

 **2\. Romans**

 **3\. Male**

 **and now, let's move on to the the story. this chapter elaborates further on our featured baddie here, which is the 'Wallace Boy' or as i named him Isaiah Wallace. :)**

 **DISCLAIMER: EVERYTHING THAT ISN'T MINE PROBABLY BELONGS TO RICK RIORDAN. PLEASE ALSO NOTE THAT THE CONTENT BELOW IS RATHER DARK AND DOES NOT ACTUALLY REPRESENT MY ACTUAL FEELINGS ABOUT RELIGION, CHRISTIANITY, ET CETERA. IT'S JUST A STORY.**

 **SONG:** Heathens by Twenty-One Pilots.

 **0.1**

The hall is quiet with a deafening room is brightly lit, decorated with a futuristic appeal. It is all white from head to toe, newly painted from head to toe due to the new refurbishings he had demanded. It used to be a high school gymnasium once upon a time but nobody had any idea what exactly happened to it. The floor is made out of varnished wood for the games that used to be played there. A balcony runs across the room for spectators and Isaiah Wallace could smell, faintly like an afterimage, the pungent scent of mortal sweat, shot through the sweet taint of chewing gum and perfume from watching girls. Dances were also held here; sweeping, sparkling prom dresses, garlands made out of tissue-paper flowers, a revolving ball of mirrors (a _disco ball,_ the mortals call it), powdering the dancers in snowflakes of light, the lingering music- an undercurrent of drums, a stream of guitars, the twinkle of a piano over a laugh or two and the stampede of elegant high heels and polished shoes tapping in sync with the rhythm and the harmonies.

Isaiah Wallace can almost feel the emotions of the ghosts that once serenaded the room. Loneliness, happiness, and expectation, or yearning for something that was always about to happen, where it be in a parking lot, a bedroom, the janitor's closet, in front of the television with the sound turned down and mouths colliding. Those emotions had been thoroughly scrubbed cleaned.

Isaiah tries his hardest to wash away the mortals' repugnance of high school dances and prom sex so no one is ever reminded of such things; so the memories of mortal life is nothing but what it is: a dream. But it doesn't go away in his mind. It's still in the air, in the air like an afterthought refusing to leave Isaiah alone.

Isaiah approaches the podium on the stage with a cool mask, his eyes blue and glassy, like the texture of ice, smooth, silky, cold, unfeeling, unreadable. Or like a mirror, except the reflection staring at you is a dead body. Because sometimes, Isaiah wonders if he's dead inside.

His mother said he should be dead, that he deserved to die. Because he's a monster, an abomination, hell on Earth. In some ways, she's right but most of the time, she's insane. _Sorry,_ was. That schizophrenic bitch didn't exist anymore for a reason. He has to stop thinking about his mother in the present.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome." His stare is fixated on the crowd, almost admiring the utter obedience of every spectator. Their attention never wavers, their backs ramrod straight to show the respect demand, the respect he deserves. It's all he ever wanted. "Before we get started with the assembly, I first like to bring a guest."

He nods firmly at the guards standing firm on every corner of the room, machine guns loaded with Celestial Bronze bullets, melted and mixed with ordinary mortal metal so it does as much damage on any other race. Like clockwork, a line of guards in their iconic latex black uniforms marches out in a single-file line, escorting out a handful of mortals onto the stage. The mortals shuffle miserably, pushed to the front with their hands covered in a block of hardened cement, rendering all possibilities of escaping, their mouths gagged with black strips of satin, their faces hooded, vision impinged- for security measures, of course. He has never been sloppy, thinking through every facet, every possibility, tie up any loose ends. He hates sloppiness, idleness; everything the mortals stand for with their stupid iPhones and social media. What a waste of time.

Time is precious. As a son of Kronos, he should know.

He watches impassively as the guard haul the mortals into a line. A man, a very ordinary man, refuse to let the guard push him into motion is punished with something sharp and brutal from the butt of the machine gun that doubles him over into a limp cloth bundle, allowing guards to pick him up and heave him into an ordered line formation like a sack of mail. It's performed in seconds and almost no one notices. Isaiah smiles. The efficiency is lovely; no idleness, no sloppiness, no mortal laziness. It is cold, methodical, mechanical.

"Everybody, I would like to introduce you to my guests," Isaiah pauses, most likely for dramatic effect, and grins wickedly at the crowd, who watches with a delicious intrigue, laughing amongst themselves like jeers of bullies in a crowded toilet stall, shoving a poor kid into the toilet bowl, "The missionaries of St. Paul's Church!"

The crowd explodes into another fit of cruel laughter, stomping the ground as they clap. Isaiah makes it a conscious effort not to wrinkle his nose at their cheap amusement, how easily swayed they are. What do you expect from a bunch of monsters, demigod lowlifes who never known better?

"Now these missionaries have been doing a tremendous effort in reaching places of great need," his tone oozes faux sympathy, mockingly sincere, as the guards slowly unveil each of their faces. Isaiah's eyes hungrily drink every expression of fear, every tear streaking down wet cheeks, every tremble of lips, feeding on it as if they're fueling him with power, "and they should be rewarded, of course. Shouldn't they?"

The crowd roars in appreciation, colouring Isaiah's ears in their thirst for blood and gore. He jerks his head at the nearest guard to set the prisoner in front of him. The guards step out and grab the nearest one: a woman in a tattered button-down pastel blouse, straw hair, pale shivering skin, wooden cross hanging from her neck in a wide display, chest rising rapidly, heart pulsing with fear. He could hear it from here. He wonders if she can see the monsters for what they are. If the Mist is fooling her anymore. He doubts it.

He lowers himself so their faces are levelled. She automatically looks down to avoid his eyes looking into hers. They're so close he can see the sweat beads colonising on her forehead and her hairline; every freckle, every pore, every imperfection that makes her so irrevocably mortal. She couldn't be anything older than seventeen.

"What's your name?" he asks casually like he's making inquiries on what she had for lunch.

She doesn't answer, her eyes set on studying the floor beneath her. In a flash, the _crack_ of flesh hitting flesh sounds before anybody could register it and in half a second, a red mark is vivid on her cheeks, like a scandalous blush.

"I said," he repeats it gently again: "What's your name?"

This time, her cracked mouth parts and the words come out in shaky stutters: "Es- _Esther."_

"Esther." Rolling it on his tongue, he plays with her name, " _Esther._ That's really beautiful. Named after Queen Esther of the Jews?"

Her head snaps up in perplexed bewilderment that he knows the origins of her name. How couldn't he? His mother made him memorize the Bible, recite it in such precision that every time he got a word wrong she'd splash hot boiling water onto his face. "Y- _yes."_

"Well Esther, I'm so sorry about this," he sighs like this predicament is a massive inconvenience, like being stuck in rush hour traffic, "but I'm afraid you're about to be disposable."

"Please," she begs, shaking her head, " _Please,_ don't do this. The Lord-"

"-doesn't exist," he finishes for her. "Your God doesn't exist. But mine does."

He reaches towards his holster, which carries a sword with a sickle protrusion along one edge near the tip of the blade- a _harpe._ The metal has been infused with a mixture of different chemical compositions, melded with Stygian Iron, Celestial Bronze, Imperial Gold and the ordinary, mundane metal of titanium. Whenever Isaiah holds it, he can feel the different aspects fighting with each other but as time progresses, he'll harness each of them to work with each other and perform the tasks needed.

Her eyes widen and she starts to thrash. Immediately, the guards surge forward to hold her down so he can end this smoothly. "Don't move," he advises lightly. "It'll only hurt more."

She's crying now, sobbing to herself: " _Father in heaven,_ _hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come-"_

The crowd laughs harder than ever and Isaiah has the urge to join them but he's a professional so he bites his tongue down and forces the smile off his face. _Stupid little girl, just like my filthy mortal of a mother._ He swings his sword in a wide arc, above her beautiful, slender neck, which is held out in a display by the guards as she shakes violently in their grip, praying, crying thrashing.

"Remember, everybody," he announces as everybody waits in anticipation, "Godly blood is the only pure blood!"

"Godly blood is the only poor blood!" They repeat after him in unison, loud and clear.

The blade whips down and disconnects the head from her neck painstakingly, like a butter knife through hard cheese. Her screams ultimately come to a stagger. Her head flops down loosely to her waist, hanging by strands of muscle and tissues, her wounds resembled stumps of raw, bloodied hamburger meat. The jagged flesh surrounds the end where the blade has cut precisely through the tendons and muscles.

The blood douses him, sickly and wet, in red darkening to black, matting his hair and clothes, seeping into his white shirt and blue jeans. He tuts, upset. How he hates all these messes. "This is my favourite shirt. Oh well."

He wipes the handle of his blade with the hem and picks up her head by her hair, as the guards grab her decapitated body. "Dinner," he smirks at the horde of monsters and tosses her head towards a clan of drakons. The guards carry her body towards a waiting army of Cyclopes, screaming for blood.

Then his eyes flicker over to the terrified prisoners, "Who's next? You pick."

* * *

Night falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising like the dawn? When you truly look at it, put it in perspective, night looks like it's rising, not falling, darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover, like smoke from an unseen fire. A line of fire just below the horizon, a bushfire or a burning city. Either way, it's night now and the day is gone.

The day resumes well after the assembly. He spends the day cruising through the abandoned high school, overseeing the different branches of operations. The training of his recruited demigods are going well; they're taught myths from every facet of the world, from every culture- because you never know which one happens to be true. The monsters have their thirst for blood curbed. Monsters may be a chaotic force to reign but they are so easy to win over- once you ensure them a consistent supply of food, they are happy to do anything. The video footage of him beheading the church missionaries has gone viral, reaching to a sensational two hundred million hits, getting him the press he needs.

All is going exactly as he intended, meaning it's time for Isaiah to retire to his room.

His room is located in one of the classrooms but instead of desks and a blackboard, there's a bed, a chair, a lamp and a table, a row of books and a stack of papers situated on the table and not much else. His weapon, the harpe, lies plainly on the bedside table near his bed. There's no pictures, no signs of any personal memories, no personality; just a simple room. It's freakishly cleaned, impeccable to suit Isaiah's obsessive compulsive preferences so there's not a speck of dirt lingering on any of the corners.

He hums _Bohemian Rhapsody_ as he sits on his bed and preoccupies himself with a book- _The Tales of Two Cities,_ by Charles Dickens, written in Ancient Greek so he could understand without receiving a headache from his dyslexia. He's on the verge of finishing it when someone knocks on his door. "Come in," he says, closing his book.

The handle twists open and the person standing behind the door happens to be Erika bringing his supper.

"You don't need to do that," he remarks when she enters with the tray, covered. "Really."

"You need to eat," she says. She's so much like a mother that it irks and endears Isaiah at the same time. "We need our Leader at his best abilities."

As the daughter of Tychon, the demon of fertility, she's strangely the kindest soul he has ever known. He likes that about her. He likes how she knocks before she enters. It means she respects his privacy. He likes how blue her eyes are and how she has a habit of ashing her cigs on the floor without permission, despite how much hates the idea of messes.

He takes the cover off the tray. Baked potato, green beans, salad, a can of tuna. Pudding for dessert. And for a little treat, a bottle of Jack Daniels. It's all healthy until the whiskey shows up. No matter how hard Erika tries to promote a healthy living, she cannot resist her penchant for her alcohol and for that, he chuckles. "Where did you get the whiskey?"

She winks, "Don't tell the others or they'll have a mutiny." She sets the tray on his table and takes a seat on the edge of his bed without permission. Her hand disappears into the pocket of her jean shorts, pulling out two sim outlines of a cigarette. She hands him one. "Lighter?"

"Of course." He rummages his pocket for his lighter and in a quick burst of flames, their cigarettes have blazing cherry ends and they're breathing in nicotine as he begins to eat.

"New book?" she inquires, glancing at the book he has abandoned on the side of his bed.

He nods.

"Is it good?"

"Yes."

"Better than the one last week?"

"What? Wuthering Heights?" he shakes his head in disapproval, "Don't compare a Bronte to a Dickens. It's like...comparing coffee with a banana."

She rolls her eyes and purses her cupid lips. "Well, I'm _sorry_ I'm not educated like you are."

"Don't be silly," he holds the cigarette in between his fingers and clears some space on his tray, away from his food so he can tap the building ash of his cigarette onto it. Erika follows suit, ashing there as well, "It's not about education, it's just literature."

"Sure, Tolkien," she jokes, the cigarette smouldering in between her lips, and takes the bottle of whiskey, places it on her lap and unscrews the cap. Many find it disconcerting. How his mood seems to swing from one pendulum to the other; those closest to him find him a pleasant fellow, who indulges in good literature, a good smoke, and a good drink, and those who never knew him views him as the bloodthirsty psychopath with a liking in beheading a whole church. Erika doesn't find him creepy or his behaviours erratic but maybe it's because she has known him since forever.

Isaiah could still recall the first time he'd seen Erika. It was the first time he discovered his powers- when he first noticed he was special.

* * *

" _Devil child!"_

His mother had locked him in the closet again during one of her fits, pushed a crying seven-year-old into the cupboard under the stairs, hysterically screaming about how he was a sinful, wicked child that has emerged from the loins of Satan while throwing Bible verses in her deranged tirade. He had balled himself into a fetal position, rocking back and forth as the screaming continues:

" _ **Devil child, devil child, devil child!"**_ His mother would wail as she banged and thrashed the door, clawing with her broken chipped nails. His ears filled with the ringing shrill of her hysteria. _Go away,_ he would pray as his tears soiled his knees, his arms wound tightly around his legs. _If God is up there, please make it go away._

Suddenly, he felt the world around him tilt and everything went black. His whole body was being pressed in all directions; he could not breathe, like there was hard iron being pressed up his neck, his eyes forced back upon his head, his ears being pushed into his skull and then-

He gasped, gulping two lungfuls of cold air as the floor beneath him was no longer the grey vomit-coloured carpet and he was no longer trapped in his mother's cupboard beneath the stairs.

He had teleported somehow...and _where?_

He stood up, staring at the world around him funny. He happened to land It was a sunny little suburban neighbourhood, where the lawns were pristinely manicured with large and tidy gardens, the houses are bright and glimmering and the sidewalks are squeaky clean- not a sign of litter or dirt mounting on the side of the streets. It looked like the beautiful pictures they used to print in the magazines about homes and garden and interior decoration. There was the same absence of people, the same air of being asleep. The streets were almost like a museum or a street in a model town constructed to show the way people used to live.

The lawn he stood on had a willow tree near their garden- weeping catkins; around the edges, the flower borders, in which the lilies were fading in their colour and the tulips were opening their cups, spilling colour. The tulips were red, a darker crimson towards the stem, as if they had been cut and were beginning to heal.

Then he tried to take a step and ultimately collapsed from exhaustion.

 _I didn't have a hold on my powers yet,_ Isaiah thinks, his memory flashing back to the early stages of his discovery. There've been too many instances when he had almost died just trying to get back to the right time period but over the years of development and progress, his ability to manipulate time and space now comes naturally. Controlling the surge of power flowing through his bloodstream and the harnessing of the right energy is now nothing but a mere walk in the park. After all, practice makes perfect.

Nonetheless, this was the starting point of his demigod journey. When he woke up after his collapse, with a sand-papery taste in his mouth and blood dried on his lips, a girl, no more than eleven years old, hovered above him as she wiped his face with a raggedy cloth. She looked nothing more than eleven, dressed in purple overalls, gold fingernails to be eccentric and a fighter's light in her eyes. Her intense brown eyes examined him with concern and softened when he blinked adorably up into her eyes. Such an innocent child. Who would've thought he'd be capable of cold-blood murder?

That girl happened to be Erika Freeman, the same girl who'll become his best friend, his partner in crime and the first things she'd ever said to him was: "You could've died, kid."

"Where- _where_ am I?" He sniffled in his whiny, child-like voice. He glanced around. Unfamiliar white walls but peeling paint, a fan spinning languidly above their heads, a couch of open ripped seams and foam spilling out onto the wooden floor- all notes of unknown, anonymity. Even at the age of four, Isaiah Wallace was precocious with a strong sense of danger. Despite not knowing where he was, he felt at peace. Even in the current present, Isaiah always feels at peace in the presence of Erika.

"The Rocks," the girl elaborated. Confusion must've marred his features, beautifully caress his innocuous features because she goes on: "Sydney."

"Huh?"

" _Sydney, Australia,"_ she said, like he was stupid, like a condescending teacher over a primary school student.

" _Where?"_ He gaped at the girl. That couldn't be. He lived in Maine, America. He couldn't even _pinpoint_ Australia on a map. Was it the one that looked like an upside down America? _See,_ Isaiah had the words on the tip of his mouth, _I have no idea where I am._ Clearly, this wasn't possible but Isaiah could sense she wasn't lying from the way how she looked so serious with her lips pursed and dark brown eyes hard. Kids were bad liars. Erika sounded like she was telling the truth, or at least she thought she was.

The girl was growing impatience. "You're in Sydney, Australia."

"But...I _can't…"_ Isaiah blinked, confused. He stared at his hands and then outside the window. Red coloured the initial blush of a sun setting down over the Sydney Harbour, signifying the end of the glamour of the day. Among the brilliant streaks of orange and pink, the vermillion haze held prominence, staining the sky with an omen that lingered long after the poignant descent of twilight.

"Erika!" Three sharp bursts of the door being slammed alerted their attention. Erika shot up, balling her fists and softening them when she realized it was a plump, dark-skinned woman with a large flat nose stumbling in, evidently intoxicated. "Who the _bloody_ hell is that?"

"Neighbour's kid," Erika explained shortly, giving him the evil eye, which meant he had to keep quiet- Isaiah could easily discern when someone wanted him to _not_ do something. "I'm babysitting for extra money."

"'Aight," the woman acknowledged, "I'm gonna go lie down for a bit, eh?"

"Sure," Erika spat bitterly. The unknown woman staggered into a hallway and in a loud string of explosions, silence later followed. "Sorry."

"Is that your mother?" he asked sweetly like all little kids do. Erika nodded. The look of distaste on her face indicated she didn't like her mother. Isaiah could relate.

"Still, doesn't solve our problems," she said gruffly, "I found you sleeping on somebody else's lawn. Could've been arrested or detained. What were _you_ up to?"

"I...I was supposed to be in the cupboard," his bottom lip trembled, "My mummy locked me in."

"Then _how_ did you…" Erika trailed off, then a beep sounded. She pulled out a strange device- a smooth rectangular box with a singular button on the bottom.

"What's that?"

"An iPhone," she glanced at him weirdly, "Haven't you seen an iPhone? I mean, I get you're like five but you obviously must've seen an iPhone."

"We...we don't have an iPhones," Isaiah shook his head vehemently, "What is an iPhone?"

"What _decade_ are you from?" Erika stared at him, irritated because she felt as if Isaiah was being stupid on purpose. Sure, seven-year-olds were pretty retarded in Erika's opinion but they weren't _that_ clueless.

But Isaiah took the words to heart. _What decade are you from?_

His mind started to piece the jigsaw together- like putting back a body that's been pulled apart in fragments, blood, and guts everywhere.

"What date is it?" he inquired quickly, his mind wondering…

"Somewhere in December, probably," Erika shrugged. _How could it be December?_ Isaiah's mind blossomed, his mind flashing back to the earlier morning where he scrawled down the date of the day, copying from his kindergarten teacher's handwriting. _It was May._ "Why?"

Disregarding the question and the first-hand, Isaiah pressed on, "I mean, what's the year?"

"2012."

Isaiah floored, speechless. For a quick second, he thought Erika was lying. But she couldn't be. Why would she? What would she gain from it?

"I'm...I'm from 2008," he finished resolutely with a deep chasm in his gut. "I think I'm in the future."

"No way," Erika choked. "You're fucking with me, right?"

But Isaiah wasn't. The expression on his face was so shocked, so befuddled Erika _had_ to believe him. From then since Isaiah realized he could time-travel. Erika called it that. _Time-traveler._ He was afraid it'd made him more of a freak than he already was- the kids at school were already pegging him with the nicknames _Jesus Freak_ and _Bible Addict_ and his mother, in her barely sane mind, thought he was a spawn of Lilith. A fleeting moment of fear struck his heart. Did she know? Was this why she viewed him as a freak, a monster? Maybe she wasn't totally insane.

Erika was different. She didn't see him as a freak, a monster. She treated him kindly. She said it was _cool._ He should be glad to have such a power- to bend space and time to his will. So he stayed. He stayed on with her in the future. As he grew up, he practiced and practiced, letting his powers fester. He'd go back in times occasionally, a little here and there, but he'd always go back to the future with Erika. They grew up together- sort of. He would turn eight and she'd thirteen but then he'd go back to the day she was twelve and wait for himself to become nine. It was a constant cycle of going back so they become the same age. In technicality, they _were_ the same age because they were born the same year but if he was to let himself age naturally so he'd be the same age as her, he needed to go back to the past- the past where he wasn't loved, where he was abused, neglected and perceived as an abomination.

And he much rather kills himself before that could happen.

* * *

 **pleaSE REVIEW.**

 **[god i'm so thirsty why]**


	3. 02

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything. RR does.**

 **The character list is below the chapter!**

 **SONG:** New World Coming by Benjamin Wallfisch and Disa / Greek Tragedy by The Wombats (Bastille Remix)

 **0.2**

The sound of metal clanging against metal fill the empty parentheses of silence throughout the whole hallway of cells, echoing and ricocheting off the naked, rusting walls of the prison. The yell of the guard sweeps through the room, leaving an after wave of chaos in its wake: a stir of agitated chatter starting amongst the prisoners, snaps of conversation exchanging in errant, sharp tones, heads craning towards the door's direction as the loud stomps of a line of stampeding prison guards marching into the hallway echoes through the resounding walls.

Evelyn Clearwater cracks open an irritated eye, groaning as she convulses into wakefulness, stretching as she sits rapidly with a petulant scowl at being relentlessly shaken from her sleep. The four metal walls of her cell greet her as she rubs her eyes and yawn.

Her cell is standard, like all the other prisoners here. Grey, metal walls, lined with _fragnos_ copper, a type of metal that blocks all types of demigod power, blessed and forged with the essence of Tartarus. A chair, a table, a lamp, a bed. Single, mattress medium-hard, covered with a dirty white spread. No mirror. To discard vanity or something of the like so Evelyn hasn't seen how she looks like in the past year. She knows she has blonde hair. It's gone too long, untrimmed for the last year, brushing against the small of her back. She faintly remembers she has pale green-blue eyes, unhealthy pale skin, red marks on her wrists. Flashes on surgical instruments. Screaming pain. Red all over. Hazy vision. Drugs, possibly. _No,_ drugs definitely. Coloured pills and injection needles. Euphemisms like _this might sting a little._ Lost time. So much lost time. _Shake it out, shake it out._

Above her, a grim, grey metal ceiling, a circular rusty light glaring down instead of a hanging light. They were scrupulous when building the cells since they've removed anything you could tie your bedsheets to.

A window. Shatterproof, built with fragnos copper, only opens partly, not big enough to crawl through but Evelyn likes to keep it open. It lets the breeze of the Underworld in and sometimes the faint screaming of tortured souls in the background help lull her to sleep.

 _It must be morning,_ Evelyn says to herself in her mind, listening intently to the sounds of heavy footsteps outside her cell. _What's going on?_

Breathing in the stale air of her cell, she presses her ear onto the wall, wondering what her next door neighbour is up to and if he has any idea what's going on. Besides her is a boy, she thinks. His name is Carmen, she remembers one of the guard calling him. She's been here for almost a year, ever since the prison first started up. Is it a year? Maybe two? Maybe a year and a half? Couldn't be any longer than two. In the Underworld, there's no sun or moon so there's no way to tell. Maybe she should, counting days through the times they call her for breakfast and dinner. Start scratching marks on the walls. But what's the use? She's not crazy. Crazy people do that. She doesn't think she's crazy. Okay, maybe a little crazy. _Hmm._

Whatever it is, she's been here for a long time and yet she's still learning the names of all the other inmates but with time, she feels as if her memory is fading, like the ability to write her own name is losing its grip in her own mind. The ability to say words and communicate is pretty much null since those experiments. The only thing she has to listen to is silence. She'll say her sanity is slowly ebbing away as well but her sanity was never there to begin with.

Suddenly, a sharp clang of the bell pierces into Evelyn's skull. The bell that measures time is ringing. Evelyn wince at the loudness of it as her body is still adjusting to the state of being awake, shaking the dense stupor out of her limbs as she gets out of her bed and advances her feet towards the thick, metal door of her cell.

The tiny slot in her door slides open with a bone-crunching grind of metal against metal and reveals a prison guard in uniform staring at her with hardened eyes and a fixed expression of displeasure on his face, despite his ghostly, ghoulish appearance courtesy of the ghosts of Asphodel. "It's time for breakfast," he snaps harshly, "And we have some new prisoner today. We'll be introducing them into the system. Now stand back with your hands behind your back, 236. You know the drill."

"Alright," Evelyn sighs. She retreats with her back turned to the end of her cell and stretches her arm all the way to her back as she hears the metal cell door clicking open and swinging a wide arc, allowing the guard to come in to retrieve her. The guard wields an electrified cattle prod, which he'll not hesitate to use if he senses a slight disobedience in the orders he has instructed. Evelyn has felt it before. Once she felt a sneeze building up in her throat and just as she's about to violently sneeze, she brought her hand to cover her nose in a matter of habit instead of keeping her hands behind her back like she was supposed to. The guard thought she was trying to be funny so he struck her instantly with the cattle prod and electrified her until she was unconscious for two days.

Fun times at the Katadiki Pennitearary.

The guard grips her arm and locks her in celestial bronze handcuffs, then pushes her slightly to indicate it's time to start walking. Her wrist aches under the pure strength he uses on making sure she stays put. You might think a ghost would go through you but it doesn't. It's the most solid thing Evelyn has ever feel.

She shuffles her feet and moves out from the darkened cell into a hallway. She winces at the lights that harshly illuminate the all-white, sterile hallways. The floor is hard with white grid-tiles beneath her white soles- the standard, prescribed shoes for a prisoner and the lights screaming overhead are too bright, too much of a presence that Evelyn feels like they're burning her skin and she wants to close her eyes and just wallow in the darkness of cell.

She's not the only one out, though. Prisoners are being escorted by guards out of the hallway to the dining room. They follow the stream of people flowing through the corridor and out the door, passing the other corridors that lead to more cells. She hums as she walks, her voice keeping in rhythm with her footsteps. Evelyn catches familiar faces, matching them up with names they pass around during free time. She sees the boy she always partners herself with during their fitness circuits a few heads in front of her. There's no mistaking that dark skin and dark hair. Adrian Dusk. Son of Apollo. Kind of quiet, a little reclusive, prefers to keep to himself. Kind of boring. But she knows that if you end up in a place like the Pennitearary, there's no way he's in any sense of the word safe. She has half a mind to ask if she can go up to him and say hi but she holds her tongue. Adrian is most likely to ignore her anyway as his version of 'hi' is startled eyes and a soft jerk of the head.

The dining room is big and spacey, like a high school gymnasium but filled with the smell of warm food. The guard releases her arm as she enters and stations himself at the door. She glances at some of the prisoners, who are already sitting down on the rows of steel metal benches, spooning their breakfast. Evelyn leans slightly to see what's in their metal bowls. Oatmeal. Evelyn wrinkles her nose. Ew.

She marches towards the long queue of prisoners, smiling and bouncing like a little child who's been given candy. Beaming positively, a stark contrast from the grim faces of her other inmates, she waves at the scowling cafeteria lady, a plump ghost who's been sentenced to an immortal duty of scooping food for demigods who has royally pissed off the Gods. "Hello Janine," she says with a slight skip in her voice, "How are you today?"

Evelyn, who seems unaware of Janine's scowl and snarl, only smiles when Janine snaps: "I'm great, 236. Would you like some oatmeal, just like everybody else?"

"Oh, wow," Evelyn stares at the trays of porridge-like oatmeal sludge. "It looks lovely."

The boy behind her, Kaisu Takakuro, raise his eyebrows, unable to detect a layer of sarcasm sprinkle over Evelyn's childlike, cutesy voice.

Janine scoops a substantial amount of oatmeal- and there's a very _loose_ application of food use on the white-grayish cement-like substance given to eat- and plops it on the metal bowl, which looks like a dog bowl, passes it to Evelyn, who browse through their untouched fruits sentence and the utensils- all plastic. Nobody trusts any of them to handle anything metal that can cause a severe degree of harm. "May I have an apple?" She asks sweetly. Janine rolls her eyes but nod yes so Evelyn happily collects her tray and turn back to the room.

Prisoners who are in relatively good terms group together in their own individual cliques, sitting together as they eat, bitch about prison guards and talk about their very interesting schedules of staring at the walls of their prison cells. Anyone who's a weirdo or a loner sits by themselves, in the corner near the trash cans. It's like high school, Evelyn likes to think so but honestly she has never known what high school is like. She spent most of her pre-teen years stuck inside a basement, locked in chains.

Skipping slightly, she finds a table of the most familiar faces- the people who she spent group prison projects with. Malina, Matthew, and Ries are already seated, halfway through their oatmeal, talking about the new arrivals that cause the bustle of gossip to be a little louder today.

"I heard one of them is a fucking nutcase," Malina is on the verge of saying as she plays with her oatmeal, mixing it around with her plastic spoon, but doesn't eat. _No self-respecting idiot will ever eat this kind of food_ , she remembers Malina once saying.

Matthew laughs, not meanly, "Look at all of us, Mal. We're all fucking nutcases. Be more specific."

Well, you have to give him points for self-awareness.

"Hullo," greet Evelyn pleasantly, humming again. She's singing 'Rock-A-Bye Baby' when she sets her tray down on the table and swings her legs over the bench to take a seat.

"Hey, Evie," Mal replies lightly enough, smiling uneasily when the daughter of Morpheus settles into her seat and began combing her hair with a plastic fork. Mal scoots away and Evelyn frowns, scooting towards Mal. Mal is pretty in the way Aphrodite girls are- slender face, heavy-set eyes, delicate lips but she discards the usual conventions of an Aphrodite girl with the left side of her dusty brown hair shaved, tattoos in hidden places and a gaping hole in her nose, where her nose ring used to be but the prison guards forced her to remove it as they didn't trust prisoners to be anywhere near any sharp objects. No scissors, knives (of course), not even metallic forks and spoons.

"See?" Matthew offers, "Nutcases."

Ries rolls his eyes and ignores Matthew, "How are you, Evie?"

"Me?" Evelyn's face brightens at the acknowledgement of somebody else. After all, she _loves_ being known, eats up the attention like a Kardashian. "Oh, I'm doing lovely, just- like- _wow."_ She says 'wow' in a very spacey manner, big-eyed, smiling, happy, eager to please as her grin stretches wide, twirling her long blonde hair with a fork as she disregards her food.

"Everybody, listen up!" Their attention swivel, taking eyes from themselves to the person who spoke. Nico Di Angelo in the flesh, surging through the room with his presence. Despite his small, skinny frame, the son of Hades demands attention in the room. His hand is tight around his Stygian sword as he examines their faces with a hardened resolute and though his stature is relaxed and lazy, there is a hardening in his muscles that means he'll be ready to spring up any minute. "Today, we have some new arrivals. Please, make them feel…" Nico stops to try to find the right word, "...um, welcomed. Yeah, make them feel welcomed."

Ries tries not snort and Malina shoots him a look that says _before you get placed in solitary, you asshat._

The guards bring forth rows of chained individuals, clothed in a brand new, clean prison uniforms- the prescribed issue of a white button down, white pyjama-like pants and white nurse shoes- from the door. They march in a single-file line obediently, kept in line with the electrified batons, ready to hit at any given moment. Evelyn observes them with big eyes. They look hardened, tight-lipped and cold eyes as if they think they'll survive anything.

 _We'll see,_ Evelyn muses with a smile quirking up her lips, with a scintillating, mad little glint in her eye, _if they'll last this place five minutes._

* * *

"Jesus, fuck."

Kathryn Huang sends him a weird look, raised eyebrows, pursed lips. She's a Daughter of Hecate but sometimes that disapproving, harrumphing look is more reminiscent of a kid of Athena than anything else. "Aren't you a conservative Christian?"

Chris purses his lips. "Aren't we children of Greek Gods? Besides, considering the situation, don't you think it's quite appropriate?"

Kathryn sighs, running a hand through the sidebangs of her caramel hair. The rest of her hair has been looped into a high, tall ponytail that helps keep all loose hair away from her but perspiration bead down her forehead in tiny droplets, dripping onto the floor as the sun beats relentlessly on the ground. He has no doubt that he's just as sweaty, which he can confirm by the sticky feeling he's been having all day and the rancid smell of overcooked sweat clinging on the wet spots of his bright orange t-shirt.

Summer has struck and it has struck hard.

It's in the middle of August. It's hot and stuffy, warm like stagnant, muggy air suffocating him at this time of the year and if this isn't proof that global warming isn't true, Chris doesn't know what is.

What's even worse than the August heat is that his brothers- the dearly, beloved Stoll Brothers- has left his cabins in literal _ruins_ after a prank gone wrong. Something about, Chris distinctly remembers before flying out of a cabin in a blast with enough bomb power to nuke North Korea, trying to mix the Aphrodite Cabin's Barbie Dolls with some Greek Fire and potions stolen from the Hecate Cabin. Chris also recalls trying to stop them adamantly but was too late as by then he was flung ten feet in the air, about to land on the cold hard floor, which is probably the most cooling thing he has felt all day.

The main scope of the situation is basically now every Hermes kid's belongings are strewn all over the dusty camp floor, with bits of the cabin's structure, dust, debris and rubble littered across the huge expanse of the destruction with smoke billowing out of the distance, as if a massive bushfire has just started. It looks like the US government has gone all _Hiroshima and Nagasaki_ all over their cabin.

Other campers milling about the camp has stopped in their paths to peer about the sudden explosion at the Hermes cabin, stopping to gawk, point, and applaud at the thick clumps of . Some are laughing as the Stolls emerge from the ruins, grinning at the hail of their carnage and bowing down at the applause; unfortunately unharmed much to everybody's chagrin.

"Chiron is going to be _so_ mad," Chris gripes, shaking his head in disapproval. Chris turn to the Daughter of Hecate, who is kicking away a pile of debris away from her path to catch up with Chris. "Do you think you can fix it before anyone notices? I don't want to be stuck with washing duty-"

"WHAT HAPPENED?!"

"Too late," Kat murmur as they turn around to see an angry centaur galloping towards their way from the Big House. Chiron is steaming mad, his face a blooming red colour as he glares at the entirety of the Hermes cabin, who looks down sheepishly, head droop down low as they sense another scolding lecture about to explode in their face. Chris wants to facepalm his entire face into the ground. How did he got stuck with the siblings that caused the most trouble?

"Who did this?" Chiron turns a hateful glare at the Stoll Brothers, who immediately hold up their hands in surrender, feigning surprise by the sudden accusation.

"What?" Travis- Chris is pretty sure it's Travis- tries his best to look innocent. Campers who heard this laugh slightly but one cross look from Chiron makes the laughter dissipate into uncomfortable, dead silence.

"Us?" Connor chimes it along with Travis, scratching his head in mock confusion. "Do this?"

" _No,_ impossible," Travis shakes his head but Chiron puts a hand up to indicate that they should really stop trying to dig a hole they're already stuck in and that he doesn't believe it one bit, the scowl on his face echoing the familiar lines that Chris is often tired of hearing, due to him being stuck in the cabin of troublemakers: _this is not cool_ and _you're dead._

"This is going to take days to repair!" fume Chiron, pointing at the heaping mounds of debris and wood all over the camp's floor, some of which has embedded itself into the grass roof of Demeter's cabin, much to the dismay of Katie Gardner. More campers start to come out onto the amphitheatre, from their cabins, arriving at the space created by the Greek _Omega shape_ the cabins have been placed into. New campers watch in horror, or in the case of the Roman exchange campers stare with their mouths open at the mischief (everybody in Camp Jupiter knows if you try anything like that there, Reyna will not hesitate to sew you into a pack of weasels and throw you into the Little Tiber) or in excited glee, while the older campers, who are known to the havoc the Stoll Brothers like to wreak, just run their eyes over the damage, wondering if it's at bad as the last time, being glad it's not them at the hands of Chiron's wrath or savouring the sweet taste of the Hermes cabin getting in trouble. _Again._ "Do you have any idea how much this will cost the camp-"

"But we didn't do it!" protests Travis weakly, "Honestly."

"Yeah," Connor repeats in adamant agreement, " _Honestly."_

Chiron rolls his eyes, along with everybody else who can see through the sheer material their lies are made out of. Seriously, for children of the God of Trickery, the Stolls should know their lying skills are a disgrace to the sanctity of Hermes. Unamused by any of the endeavours the Stolls, he folds his arms, obviously pissed. "I hereby sentence the Hermes cabin to three months of washing duty."

" _What?"_

"THREE MONTHS?"

Chiron gravely regards the rest of the cabin with an evil-eye before trotting, pacing to turn back to the Big House, about to leave but not before saying: "Be lucky it isn't a year."

Everybody shut up at that point.

* * *

After dinner, campfire singalong and a two-hour session of dunking bronze plates into molten lava, there's time to spare so Chris spends it pacing around the Ares cabin, learning what to touch and what not to touch, where to go and where not to go. Some might wonder what difference does it make and the difference really- as the Ares girl explains- you dead or you alive.

The reason why for him being in the Ares cabin is simply because their cabin is not in any hospitable condition to stay in so Chiron has separated them into pairs and split them into different cabins to reside in temporarily as their cabin gets a rebuild. And lucky Chris- he got the Ares cabin.

"- map here is where all the landmines will be," the Ares girl explains, pointing out the angry red, black and white slashes marked across the map that details the cabin's floor plan. Chris has never seen much of the Ares cabin except for its exterior, a cabin scruffily painted in an angry red color with barbed wire lining the roof, rock music constantly blaring and a stuffed boar's head on the doorway that seems to glare at anybody who passes by. Inside, Chris learns that the Ares Cabin is equally as messy as the Hermes cabin except instead of candy wrappers, random bits of Greek Armour, books, phones, earphones, pranking materials like toilet paper and whip cream, stolen stashes of alcohol and weed and personal pictures stacked above their own personal beds, the Ares cabin has army cots instead of beds with wrinkled flannel sheets and army-issued blankets in khaki brown and green that aren't even made properly. Combat boots are left disheveled all over the place, just waiting to trip some poor unsuspecting kid up. Clothes, camp jeans, black tank tops, pieces of all types of weaponry, scraps of battle plans are scattered as if Hurricane Katrina has destroyed the whole room.

Right now, he's doing a walking tour of the Ares cabin with Samantha Tamaguchi- _not_ to be confused with the handheld 90's pet game. "The black ones are the mines that are disabled and the red ones...well, don't step on them. And the white ones...are you even listening?"

"Hmm?"

Samantha Tamaguchi scowl. "If you're not going to listen, you're welcome to sleep outside. Look, I'm doing this because Clarisse asked me too. This is not because I want to so if you're going to waste my time, please let me know."

"Sorry," Chris apologizes genuinely and the hardened, fixed stare of Samantha Tamaguchi's intense brown eyes softens to a fractional degree. "That was rude. I'll listen now."

"It's fine," Samantha shrug nonchalantly, "I'm pretty much done now, really. You should go for the shower now. Be quick, it's almost time for lights out and we can't have you getting our cabin in trouble."

"No problem," Chris gives a little nod. He hesitates as if to say something more but then he turns away and picks up his folded bundle of clothes, which sits at the edge of his mattress on the floor. Before he exits the Ares cabin, he bumps into one of those terrifying Ares guys- the types with biceps as thick as tree trunks, the height as tall of a skyscraper and the brain cells of a goldfish, yelling:

"Hey, TAMAGOTCHI!"

Samantha throws him a murderous look and flips him the middle finger, "It's Tama _guchi,_ not the 90's pet game. Call me that again and I'm going to hit you at a place where it doesn't shine."

But Chris leaves before he can properly distinguish the next scathing reply. He moves out of the Ares cabin and towards the showers.

The camp showers are stationed behind the dining pavilion, just on the fringe of the woods that borders the camp. The showers are two blocks of cement, facing each other, painted the same robin blue as the Big House with white trims. One for boys, one for girls. Obviously.

As Chris nears, the sound of water smashing into the bathroom tiles reaches his ear. The water steams like a soup, rising fog dissipating into the stifling hot night. It's warm even in the night. It seems like the summer never stops. August, its breathless days and sauna nights, hard to sleep.

Chris pushes open the wooden door, stepping inside on a floor of white tiles. The showers open immediately to a hall of mirrors, sinks and a center bench where folded palls of clothes of all the other campers are spread across. The hall ends at a junction, one for toilets and the other for bathrooms. As Chris begins to strips, he hums to himself. Picking up his toiletries and wrapping a towel around his naked nether regions, he journeys towards the showers.

The showers are lined symmetrically upon each other, blue shower curtains to match the sky blue colour of the outside walls. Like forget-me-nots. Some of the curtains are drawn with heated mist floating to the top, causing the rays of the lightbulbs to appear hazy and distorted, Chris pays the others no attention and clamber into the shower, pulling the shower curtains shut with a shaking of the metal rungs that attached the curtains to the metal bar.

Chris turns the knob, letting the torrent of warm water splash all over him, letting it hold him. The water is soft as hands and peace and serenity settles over him like a blanket so Chris allows his mind to wonder.

The demigod life is now pretty routine. It's been two years since a major war and all the legends- Percy Jackson, Nico Di Angelo, Piper Mclean, Annabeth Chase- has now moved on with their lives, living in a kind of muted, monochromatic blur of routine. Chris never lived in the times of that war, or at least, he didn't know he was a demigod in those times yet. He was still trapped in that extremely conservative Christian environment, stuck in a Catholic private school where the nuns were super mean and the world was nothing but a tunnel-view vision of black and white. When he found out he was a demigod, his world tilted upside down and painted orange. It was the strangest sensation ever- when everything for the last eighteen years was nothing but a lie and he's suddenly a son of Hermes and his dad who he thought was his dad wasn't his dad. But once the surprise of being a demigod fade away, life slows down again and it feels… as if the demigod life is now somewhat _normal,_ even though some might say being a demigod totally defeats the whole point of normal.

Sometimes, Chris wonders what it's like to be them- those legends, the ones talked about in stories passed around at campfires and the fame that comes with the stares and the gawks and the _oohs_ and the _ahs_ whenever one of the Seven drops by at camp or teach a lesson at one of the activities. He wonders what it's like to achieve something so monumental everyone put you up on the pedestal, all the expectation and pressure to do something great.

Chris sums that he'll probably never feel it. He's a son of Hermes. He has no powers, not many tricks up his sleeve except for ADHD, Dyslexia and a lifetime supply of whip cream. He'll spend his whole life here, picking up sword tricks he'll never have to use, preparing for quests he'll never go on, harnessing powers he never had. Now that peace is here, there's nothing else to fight for. He'll live a normal, boring demigod life and die one. What's really the point of being a demigod anymore?

 _Am I living an existential crisis?_ Chris methodically rubs the soap on his arm and run the shampoo through his hair. A part of him hopes one day he'll get to do it, as stupidly cliched as it sounds. Be like those legends he hears, be like the stories they write in books and sing songs about.

But the thing about hope is that it's like being in an elevator cut loose at the top. Falling, falling and not knowing when you will hit the bottom.

* * *

MAIN CHARACTERS, OFFICIALLY DECIDED:

Evelyn Clearwater, 16, Greek, Daughter of Morpheus, Female, Incarcerated for: Dangerous, Mental Instability.

Nadia Marie Williams, 19, Roman, Daughter of Fortuna, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Marisol Clarice Hunt, 19, Greek, Daughter of Mania, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

James Silas Moretti, 18, Greek, Son of Aphrodite, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Jaekwan Lee, 19, Roman, Son of Neptune, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Attempted Murder.

Roman Daniel Sokolov, 17, Roman, Son of Victoria, Male, Incarcerated for Drugs and Murder.

SUPERVISORS:

Christopher Michael Johnson, 18, Greek, Male, Son of Hermes.

Santiago Rafael Nieves-Linde, 20, Roman, Son of Sylvanus, Male.

Juliana Greer, 18, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female,.

Leilani Shay Kahala, 14, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

SUPPORTING CASTS:

Emmet Grayson Blake, 15, Greek, Son of Hephaestus, Male, Incarcerated for: Attempted Murder.

Adrian Ulysses Dusk, 17 (going on 18), Roman, Son of Apollo, Male, Incarcerated for: The Dusk Plagues, Murder.

Carmen Santanico Alverez, 16, Greek, Son of Dionysus, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason [Gaea's Side]

Kaisu Suzuki Takakuro, 15, Greek, Son of Apate, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ries Edward Duncan, 18, Greek, Son of Ares, Male, Incarcerated for: Abuse of Power

Malina Maruska, 18, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Matthew James Cardinal, 20, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Chelsia Elizabeth Noxley, 17, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Dean Alex Johnson, 17, Greek, Son of Lycan, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ajax Uriel Walker, 21, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Murder.

SUPPORTING CASTS [FOR CAMPS]:

Kira Lu, 15, Greek, Daughter of Ares (Adopted by Artemis), Female.

Kathryn Huang, 16, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Samantha Tamaguchi, 17, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Abigale Rebecca Saunders, 16, Greek, Daughter of Khione, Female.

Daewon Kim, 20, Roman, Son of Mars, Male.

Larissa Samnang Ros, 19, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

Thanks for all the submissions and please review! Reviews motivate me to write more. :)


	4. 03

0.3

 _ **EIGHT MONTHS AGO**_

He can feel her from across the room.

Despite the pounding music and the slough of sweaty, swaying bodies separating them, he could still feel her.

Isaiah Wallace wrinkled his nose slightly at the heavy scent of overheated flesh, cheap perfume, spilt alcohol and the occasional waft of the earthy, sweet smoke of a cigarette. Heat is pouring thickly from their eager bodies and it fills the cold club with its humid excitement. Shouts of laughter and drunken declarations, the DJ's speech and the clinking of bottles bleed beneath the deafening music like the drones of insects and they all blur together as he focuses on what he is originally here for.

There she is. Isaiah's cold eyes are snared by the girl surrounded by fervent admirers clad in short dresses and high heels that look like delicate instruments of torture, clamouring around her as she coolly puts her mouth around a cigarette and sips her drink by tilting a large bottle of Grey Goose down her throat.

Lyra Burke is pretty in the way that all girls are. Dewy skin, bright eyes, fuck-me-daddy legs, Lolita hair, lips that know how to pout. She is a defining feature of how pretty girls like her should be sweet little angels. Pretty girls like her shouldn't hurt people. But then again, like Lyra, pretty faces can hide plenty of secrets because she's also evil in the way how girls are not. She's sharp silk, red lips, lace and leather, a type of boredom only found in the wicked and cruel.

He steps forward, swivelling through the gyrating throng of masses. He watches her as she shifts in her seat, bored and unamused, as she observes the dance floor from her VIP section, lounging on the plush purple booth like a lazy cat. The boys and girls on her tables- her so-called 'posse'- trying to talk to her, attempting to engage in useless conversations, half of which are a barely sober teenager but she ignores them like static, unimpressed and cold as she brushes them aside and lights up another cigarette. Dressed ironically in her school uniform, she makes her debut in a plaid skirt, her school stockings, black Oxfords and a white buttoned down shirt that has been undone at the bottom and tied up in a knot above her belly button, showing her slim torso.

"I don't understand her importance," Erika remarks beside him, shattering his focus. "Why are we dragging ourselves all the way to LA for this?"

"Because," Isaiah answers, marginally annoyed, "she could be the answer to everything."

Erika makes a disparaging sound at the back of her throat but Isaiah ignores her and begins to move through a sea of bodies. The throbbing music acts as a bath of stimulation, pushing his heart to beat faster, pumping in sync with his pulse, vibrating against his skull as his eyes bore holes into his target. He blatantly ignores Erika, leaving her, everything and everyone who doesn't fit into his agenda. Uncaring, because that's what he is. He stalks closer, sliding against other people- filthy mortals, Isaiah shudder, with their ordinary, mundane, unworthy blood.

Suddenly, the room still. She notices him, her gaze landing dense and heavy on him. He smiles; a gesture that can be misread as flirty, inviting her to play his games, wondering if she'll get burned or she'll be a worthy competitor. She smiles back. He steps forward, out of the crowd, in front of her, catching her attention. He points to her cigarette, which glows cherry red at the tip. His twitching fingers and dried lips now yearn for the hazy comfort of a cigarette. Anything to dull the secretion of agitated excitement currently racing through his brain.

"Can I have a cig?" He asks, yelling over the music when he approaches her table. She tilts a yes with a nod of her head.

"Get him one, Chloe," she orders as the girl beside her rummage through her back and whips out a packet of cigarette, producing one for him to take. The girl whose name he presumes is Chloe flicks her lighter and in a sharp, short burst of fire, smoke curls up into the dark air from the thin outline of his cigarette.

"Thank you," he replies, and assessing a number of bottles stacked upon each other in ice buckets and the mess of half-empty glasses scattered over the obsidian table, he carries on: "Wow, you're loaded."

"Of course," she smiles and Isaiah feels a shiver of coldness travel up his spine, "How else will I enjoy myself?"

Chloe giggles beside her and whispers into her ear. She rolls her eyes but there are traces of a smirk around the corners of her mouth. "My friend thinks you're cute," she says to him, unapologetically forward. Her voice is sweet and honey-flavoured, smooth like saccharine- at a glance. But he figures that her voice is more indicative of her personality than anything else, as the deadliest poisons are often the sweetest. And from the reports he read about her and his observations of her over the last few months, Lyra Burke has the innate capability to be crueller than anyone he knows. Maybe even crueller than himself. "And maybe I agree."

Isaiah squash the urge to smirk. Hook, line and sinker. "Well, that's good because I'm about to ask you for a dance."

She raises her eyebrows and takes a drag before passing it to Chloe to finish it. "You're lucky I'm bored."

She stands up from the booth on one foot, then the other. Her spine straightens, showing her full height. She nearly towers over him and she isn't wearing any heels like the rest of her friends. Her gaze skirts across the two-story complex of the club, examining the crowded dance floor painted in artificial fog and an array of laser lights. She holds her hand out expectantly and Isaiah graciously accepts it, like the gentleman he is (oh the irony). When their fingers touch, electricity jolts through his fingers. Her eyes flicker to his face as if wondering if he felt anything. Isaiah did but he didn't let his face show it.

Her fingers are cold when he grips it in his arms and lead her towards the floor. "I never catch your name," she says over the music, her lips quite close to his ears. At this distance, Isaiah takes his time to analyse her features- exotic almond eyes, long thick eyelashes and cocoa, tan skin from her Arabic origins. The hints of Hecate exist in her slightly upturned nose, narrow face, sharp cheekbones and angular jaw.

"Isaiah," he introduces himself politely. "What about you?"

He already knows her name but he pretends like he doesn't when she answers: "Lyra. Lyra Burke."

His hands slide onto her thin waist and he directs her backside towards his front so he can feel her body against his chest. She doesn't mind as his fingers rub over her stomach, brushing the cotton of her school uniform. She's skinny. Super skinny, almost anorexic. Figures. Girls like Lyra are so stuck on maintaining an image, they'll do anything to stay perfect. Even starvation. Isaiah can't have that. He needs her eating. To channel the powers he wants her to have to perform the spell he needs her to do, she'll need to be in perfect, healthy conditions. And that means eating. "I know."

She arches her eyebrows. They are perfectly plucked. Benefits of being a spoiled Beverly Hills princess. "How?"

"I know what you did to Cori Weston."

The smile on her face melts off instantly and confusion settles in but only for a fraction of a second before it's replaced by a snarl and cruel, incendiary lights in her eyes, "Cori Weston-"

"It's fine," he interrupts her, mouth pressed to her ear. She's rigid in his grip and Isaiah wonders if it's fear that has frozen her to her spot or interest. Most likely, interest, "If anything, I sort of admire the brilliance of it."

She keeps quiet, intrigued.

"I know," he carries on strong, "That you're special. You're like me. You have powers. You're a demigod. And what you did to Cori Weston, your adopted sister, your ex-boyfriend and so many others before have been a result of that."

"Have you been stalking me?" she murmurs as their bodies intertwine in the messy, sweaty heat of people. They rock their hips to the hard techno beat pumping out of the speakers. Despite the loud music ringing in his ears, they lower their voices, their faces and ears near each other to catch what the other is saying.

"Maybe," he shrugs. It's sort of true. The minute he catches a whiff of demigod activity anywhere, he send scouts to check them out, see what they're like. He remembered reading the report his scouts wrote on Lyra. He was so thoroughly impressed he decided to take the detour himself, wondered if the anorexic sociopath was exactly like they described and if he has fina

* * *

lly found the right person for the job he needed her for.

"And I know that Cori Weston was one of your best friends since you were five. I know that you found out she's been sleeping with your boyfriend. I know that you roofied her drink, dragged her to a hotel room and let her get gang-raped by five men who were your friends. You watched and filmed it, then post it all over her social media websites. And somehow, just magically, you managed to use the Mist to falsify the evidence and deceive the whole Los Angeles police force that the whole case was just a scam by your best friend to get attention, that there was a consent given and all Cori Weston was is an attention whore, crying rape so that everybody would pay attention to her. The case was shelved, the boys were charged not guilty and your name wasn't dragged into it once. Cori Weston was so traumatically scarred, she hanged herself two weeks after the five boys were found not guilty."

Unmoved and exasperated, Lyra sighs. "You made it sound like I'm a total bad guy. Please, whore was asking for it. Not my fault she decided to off herself because she couldn't take it."

It's possible she's crueller than me, Isaiah muse as he spins her out and twirls her in, "My point is that you're not a mortal," Isaiah disregards her statements, pressing onto the main point. "You're a demigod."

Even though the humidity is driving him crazy, her hands still feel cold to the touch, like a dead corpse. "And you're one too?" she breathes into her ear, her warm breath ghosting on his skin, making him hungry. He feels her fingers move onto his wrist, feeling his arms under his jacket. She's so delicate, tender, fragile. He wants to break her fingers or crack her lovely skull. See blood run down her pretty face, unspooling her brains. Somehow, he has no doubt she's thinking the same thing with the way she's predatorily stroking his wrist. They are like two tigers, who have cornered each other, wondering which is the bigger monster.

He nods. She seems unconvinced. "Prove it."

This time, he frees himself of her grip and grabs her wrist, pulling her towards the exit. "I'll show you."

* * *

 _ **PRESENT DAY**_

The ground shifts dirt softly between his toes as he steps into redwoods of California. He's far enough from the clearing, where the status of Bacchus cannot be seen any more from the top of the hill that overlooks New Rome.

Santiago Rafael Nieves-Linde breathes into the deep fresh air of the Californian woods that surrounds Camp Jupiter. The air is tinged with redwoods and damp dirt, fresh from the rain. The trees are leaking slightly, rain droplets falling onto his face when he slips underneath the thick branch of a tree. He looks overhead of the deep forest green canopy- a dry green space, where the leaves shade him from the sun blinking down at him, keeping him safe and hidden.

Sometimes, he comes here at hours of a time, escaping the rigid structure of camp life, to just mull in his thoughts. He likes the woods. He likes the soft muted tones of nature, the crickets chirping in the distance and the cool breath of the wind licking up his bare feet.

A deer comes dashing his way, emerging for the pillars of pine trees and slowing when the deer spots him. It stops as Santiago smiles at the gentle creature. The deer's ears perk up. Santiago stills himself. The deer is afraid. "It's okay," Santiago whispers, reading the body language of the animal. It moves backwards slightly, as if not entirely certain if Santiago is safe. Santiago steps forward, coming out of the space, and reach his hand out.

The deer sniffs his palm and then look up, almond-shaped, big round eyes staring straight at him. Santiago pets the deer, stroking its soft head. Being the son of Sylvanus, the God of woods, forests and fields, Santiago possess the ability to develop close relationships with all types of woodland animals.

The deer lead him deeper into the forests, where the skies are no longer visible as a layer of trees and branches covering him from the sun, their green feathers a hundred feet up in the air. Here the growth of the plants are thicker, wider, meaner; an indication that it hasn't been contaminated with a human touch. Trunks as thick as houses, branches the sizes of pillars, tree roots forming a criss-cross pattern of forested veins, very convenient to sit on as they look like the height of half his body mass.

He's not worried that the camp will go into a worried frenzy as most of the time people hardly notice the fact that he has gone missing. Some days, he disappears for hours of a time and people barely bat an eye when he returns.

The deer manage to pick it's way towards a central clearing of sorts, revealing a field of deep, dark purple berries, attached to vines growing wildly over the place. The deer nudge him in the elbow and he glances at where the deer seems to be leaning towards. It opens it's mouth and teeth around a clump of berries, then chomp it down. Purple juice trickles down from its mouth, running freely towards the entangled soil.

Santiago plucks a couple berries from the stem and throws them into his mouth. He bites, breaking the skin of the berries, and the berry squirts out, it's liquid faintly sweet and sour. Like blueberries but tangier. He collects a few and puts them in his pockets. As he straightens up, he hears his name being called out:

"Tiago!"

Santiago turns around. Daewon Kim, one of the members of his cohort, comes bumbling through the thick undergrowth in a tight-fitting shirt and skinny light-wash jeans, wielding a broadsword. The blades glint in the foggy mistiness of the forests.

"What's going on?" Santiago asks, eyebrows scrunching together. Daewon appears breathless, panting harshly. He must've run to catch up with him.

"Leila is looking for you. The election is starting up."

Santiago straightens up and sighs. So much for a day in the woods.

He follows Daewon down the path, weaving through the thick growth of the woods towards the camp.

Back at Camp Jupiter, the legion is in a disarray. Every Cohort lining up behind their centurion at the assigned barracks, ready to march down towards the Senate for the Republic to assemble. Leila Tan, a daughter of Ceres, is preparing for role call as she instructs everybody to fall into their position.

"Finally," Leila says when she sees Daewon dashing over with Santiago lagging behind. "Don't disappear on me again."

"Promised," Santiago nods obediently. Though he's not close with the Fourth Cohort's centurion, Santiago quite likes her- a rare exception, especially since he usually like animals more than he likes people but the centurion was probably one of the best leaders out there. Unlike the other centurions, Leila is level-headed, calm and collected. She never shouts, a strange rarity in centurions. But it makes sense as the daughters of Ceres, Santiago remembers, are hardly aggressive in nature. The cohort respects Leila as well since they've always shut up the instance she asked them to, unlike the other rowdy cohorts.

"Vote for me, okay?" She smiles and squeezes his shoulder before she ushers off to the front and starts the roll call.

As Santiago goes to the back of the line, he realises how the spirits of Camp Jupiter, while chaotic, takes a slight nervous undertone to the mood. Understandable. It's Election Day, which means it's time to see who will be chosen as the next Praetor. As Reyna and Frank are now retiring campers, opting for a more subdued, quieter lifestyle in New Rome as they'll be starting college in the next month. Now it's time for somebody else to run the Legion.

As everybody stream in towards the senate to gather, they allow Terminus to scan them in order to ensure an assassination-free assembly. As Santiago is about to edge towards the end of the line, a loud commotion explodes by the front forum and then a collection of gasps, shouts and yells echo through space. Santiago frowns, wondering what could possibly be happening, and tiptoes to see what's happening.

Nico Di Angelo has appeared on Terminus's head by accident due to his not very well aimed Shadow Travelling, which has caused the said statue to freak out and topple onto the floor into a splutter of expletives and swear words. It didn't faze the son of Hades as he ignores the statue and turns towards the camp, whose attention falls strictly on to the Ambassador of pluto.

Nico Di Angelo spots a grim expression. "I have bad news."


	5. 04

**DISCLAIMER: DON'T OWN STUFF THAT DOESN'T BELONG TO ME LMAO. ALSO NEW SYOC STUFF DOWN BELOW! ALL THE INFO IS DOWNSTAIRS :)**

 **0.4**

Unfortunately for James Silas Moretti, anyone vaguely attractive within the prison walls is either a sibling of his or mentally unstable. A guy his age with his looks and his charm confined to this disgusting asylum is just pure torture.

He doesn't even remember the last time he touches a girl or a guy or felt someone's hot lips sliding against his. As a self-proclaimed big flirt and expert at getting any man or girl to spread their legs like a white girl on prom night, James feels as if his talents at seducing is slowly wasting away. There was Carmen, of course, Carmen who's always willing to escape with him into the toilet stall. Carmen is just like him; a boy with pretty smiles that were beautiful but sharp as a knife, a charmer and a danger, heartbreakers, and Carmen understands where James is coming from- one of the very few people who understand that James doesn't massively buy the whole love is forever bullshit. There is Carmen, who is always down to touch, stroke and fuck until their breaths run out. But even now, he could feel Carmen is starting to get bored of him. Players and fuckboys like the both of them usually got bored of people easily so the feeling is mutual.

Nonetheless, James is bored and hot and bothered. He doesn't understand why this is such a problem- he's bisexual so he isn't picky with what gender he sticks it into but then again, the inmates in the prison are the type of people who might accidentally whip out a knife and stab him if he isn't careful.

That changes, of course, during the arrival of the new prisoners. James happens to be carrying a heavy lodge when Nico Di Angelo arrives with a flank of guards and a line of chained demigods being dragged into motion.

When James isn't staring at the four walls of his 6x9 cell, they are forced into working manual labour for Hades's kingdom. It works almost like a forced labour concentration camp; they are pushed by guards out of their cells after breakfast where they spent days digging trenches or building fancy new places for the heroes in the Fields of Elysium. If you're lucky, you were sent off to work as waiters at the restaurants and cafes in Elysium.

If you fail to work at the pace they wanted you to work, the guards are free and allowed to give you forty lashes. That's not the worst part about the whipping. The leather is dipped into the River Styx so the pain stings and lingers beyond physical contact hours after it's over. There were stories and tales of people being worked to exhaustion, similar to how there were numerous cases of Nazis and Japanese soldiers working their prisoners of war to the death. James remembered how a small demigod, no less than six, a son of Apollo who had been recruited by Gaea forces when he was a mere toddler, had literally collapsed onto the floor and James had barely enough time to look away when the guards bashed his head in for the lack of tardiness.

"Everybody, attention!" Nico commands. The prisoners glance up at the recent arrival of Nico Di Angelo. James drops the wooden log he was heaving onto his shoulders and pause to listen. "These are your new prisoners."

Normally, James couldn't give a shit what the Son of Hades is saying but the prospect of new prisoners always interest him. They don't get many additions to the prison often. The most they've always gotten was when the Prison first open due to the fact that it was right after the second Giant War and Gaea was just defeated. They'll get one or two maybe once every four months but from the line behind Nico and the guards flanking around the prisoners, there is quite a reasonable amount- almost ten new prisoners. James frown. That's strange. Gaea has been defeated two years ago and only now these rebels were showing up? Presuming, these are rebels.

He examines their faces- dejected, broken, angry, rebellious, incited; similar expressions of someone being caught for war crimes until a face catches his attention. She's the only girl in the collection of prisoners caught and fuck, she's hot. James has no preference for girl or boy but it's been so long since he actually fucked one, he's starting to feel as if his sexual spectrum leaning towards boys. It's rare to find a hot girl here that isn't an Aphrodite spawn and even though James usually fucks anyone that moves, he draws the line at incest and bestiality.

The girl is skinny and slim so her prison clothes hang loosely over her emaciated frame like a high fashion model. She's beautiful to look at but there is a cruel, cold light in her eyes. He can relate. She's mocha-toned with a long spill of dark hair and her lips are faintly pink with a shadow of stained lipstick.

"You lot will be starting here for your first day," Nico bark harshly at the new prisoners, "Guard, divide them into separate compounds."

James resumes back to his work, lifting the log back on his shoulders but his eyes remain on the newcomers as they disperse amongst the field of newly plotted underground land.

"Oi!" The guard flicks him on the wrist with a quick slash of the whip; James hisses as the Styx-dipped whip burned into his flesh. "Get back to work!"

James snaps back into concentration and proceeds to lift the log towards a skeletal structure of an apartment complex, where a flurry of prisoners was busy nailing woods together and constructing the house for new heroes of Elysium. Steel rods, panels of wood and stacked bricks are rising up from Elysium's manicured lawns like a metal monster about to swallow someone up. Hideous, grinding screeches of drills and power drills, as of some monstrous machine running without oil, echoed through the din of the fields. Measuring tapes and rulers, along with blueprints and maps are scattered across the field in messy formation as he avoids stepping on them while carrying the heavy log on his shoulders.

In contrast to the ugly wasteland of vistas of apartment complexes being built across the land, behind them is the beautiful Metropolitan city that occupies the rest of the Fields of Elysium. The city resembles a utopian ideal of New York city, where the buildings seemed to be a vertical sail, scintillating and very light, a luxurious backdrop of the Underworld, suspended in the dark sky to dazzle, distract and hypnotise. But he's not allowed to enjoy any of that.

Sweat drips down his forehead, not from the heat but from the strain on his muscles. The heat he feels is superficial anyway, generated from the warmth of Tartarus not too far away from them. After about a year of being a prisoner at Katadiki, James couldn't even remember what real sunshine feels like and how the world above looks like. Days of blue skies and yellow sunshine peeking above fluffy white clouds are a mere, hazy memory, like an ancient faded polaroid that was taken with shaky hands.

"Faster, you piece of filth," a guard snarls, shoving the girl he previously eyed forward. She stumbles and catches herself. She grit her teeth and her eyes flash but she keeps her cool and stays quiet.

"You!" The guard is jabbing his finger at James. James raises his head at the voice and meets the guard's gaze- two empty socket holes of a skull. "Tell her what to do."

He nods briskly as the guard resume back to his post. He turns to the girl. "So you can help me grab some of the wood over there-" he points over to the carriage of building materials; a heap of freshly chopped wood, along with buckets of nails and types of equipment. The only thing missing are safety hats and appropriate clothes meant for construction. Hades has clearly neglected this part of their punishment, just purely for the full effect of the term 'punishment', "-and bring it over here so the others can put it together. Follow me."

The girl is silent as she ambles slowly behind him. He is annoyed at the lack of speed in her pace and the sluggish way she seems to move and finds himself impatiently tapping his foot, waiting for her to arrive at where he is.

"What's all this for?" she gestures towards the construction site.

"We're building new houses for Elysium," James smile bitterly, and then add for the effect: "Someone has to do the legwork, right?"

"That's fair," the girl snorts and he wonders who her godly parent is. Her appearance doesn't seem indicative of any parental god or goddess. As a child of Aphrodite, he is blessed with the inherent ability to judge a person's background through their physical appearance. Say what you want about how first impressions doesn't necessitate a good judgement of character but he could easily make out a kid of Athena with their eyes- grey colour, calculative, stormy, wise, intimidating. He could judge a child of Ares with the way they carry themselves- brutish, masculine and warlike, no-nonsense expression, frown lines and scowls and children of Demeter with their fair skin and natural, plain but pretty features- ski-slope noses, small lips, delicate lashes and their likes natural fabrics and eastern-inspired designs. But Lyra is sharp and all angles; almost Russian but her dark, mocha-toned skin indicated otherwise…so who is her parent?

"Come, I'll help you lift this one," he says, looking at the log that's nuzzled in between the carriage's legs. It's the size of a tree trunk.

"Thanks," she replies, bending down to grab the right side as he makes his way to the left. Together, they heave the trunk and head down back towards the construction site.

After they dispose the log down close to the heap of wood collecting near the skeletal figure of a house being built, James wipes the sweaty sheen off his forehead and glanced at the girl, who is equally breathless, panting and hunching over. James imagines her looking like that after he's done with her- her oxygen robbed off her body, the sweat dripping off he as he pins her to a door, mannequin satisfaction written over her face. It's been way too long since he fucked a girl. Too long. "I've never got your name by the way."

She smiles, wicked like the devil. "It's Lyra."

* * *

He was sleeping on his single bed, his body cocooned in a dirty white spread on a hard mattress until he hears sirens screaming and ripping him out of the swells of unconsciousness. He sits upright, blinking rapidly once, twice, three times before his feet touch the ground. He puts his hands onto his ears as they shrivel up into his body at the sheer sound the speakers are making- like a tortured wails from a wounded animal, or a girl when someone is forcing salt on a bullet wound. It's a noise that set one's teeth on edge and bristles the hair at the back of one's neck.

His eyes flicker towards the door and almost gape at what he sees: pure unadulterated chaos; prisoners running amuck, shrieking, destroying whatever they can as the guards are standing by the door side, remaining their posts with a duped expression on their faces. What the actual fuck?

He runs out of his cell and assimilates with the chaos- his fellow cellmates tearing things apart, breaking cell doors and bars with their bare hands like a bunch of savage gorillas, uncontrollable exclamations of rage accompanying their terror, people are leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices in an effort to drown the maddening sirens of alarm breakout that blare from the speakers overhead while some are more focused on getting the hell out, creating a bottleneck at the entrance as people are clambering on top of each other.

This time he spits it out loud: "What the actual-"

He stops himself. His eyes widen, large as saucers. The wall right next to his cell is spray-painted bold red, messily scrawled in hurried writing:

 ** _It's Time For A Reckoning._**

 ** _-The Celestials._**

His heart turns cold. What is happening? What is actually happening?

But before he can process any further, a dart pierce him in the neck and he crumbles into darkness.

* * *

"There's an emergency meeting."

Juliana Greer's strong features reminiscent of Ares descent twists itself into a frown. Juliana, a bold-looking girl of eighteen with green eyes, thick hair and swift, athletic movements can be quite intimidating when she wants to be but the shorter girl barely quivers when Juliana narrows her eyes. She examines the messenger's expression, which happens to be a girl in her Ancient Greek class- Abigale Saunders, a daughter of Khione. "Are you sure?"

Abigale nods curtly. As a daughter of Khione, Abigale is as warm as Siberia during December but Juliana doesn't take the cold indifference of Abigale's nature to heart. She's like that with everyone. "Dead serious. Chiron wants everybody at the amphitheatre now."

Juliana swears softly under her breath and runs a hand through her curled brown hair. "Alright, tell him I'll have everybody out soon."

"Sure," Abigail answer and dash away, leaving Juliana on her own. Juliana looks back at the group of seven-year-old and eight-year-old kids she's teaching how to fight. She has paired them off with each other and gave them plastic swords to practice their movements with and she was hoping to be able to teach them how to disarm each other- the first time they ever did a proper move out of the sword fighting textbook but she'll have to do that next.

"Hey kids," she calls out through the commotion of excited toddler chatter with a clap of her hands to indicate it's time to shut up and listen, "We have an emergency meeting at the amphitheatre right now so can you please put your swords in the basket and line up according to your cabins."

Of course, when it comes to controlling little kids or demons- whatever term is applicable, no instruction ever gets carried without blood being shed. It's even worse when it comes to little kids, who happen to be demigods with no control over their abilities and diagnosed with ADHD.

She sighs as they start to scream and squabble amongst themselves, throwing and chucking their plastic swords at each other. Children, Juliana wants to tear her hair out, this is why I will never ever fucking reproduce. Why did she volunteer herself for this again? Oh yeah, to prove to Clarisse I have leadership skills. Clarisse, the current head counsellor, was on the verge of finishing her degree in New Rome, which meant she'll be off to finding a full-time job soon. Besides, Clarisse was also engaged now so she's too old and mature to deal with any of the ongoing affairs of their cabin in camp.

In Juliana's mind, this equates to the power vacuum Clarisse's absence will leave. She can just imagine the havoc that will be wreaked across the Ares siblings, fighting and maiming over who gets to be the new camp counsellor. Due to the low number of quests after the defeat of Gaea, Juliana doubts she'll be able to go on a quest to prove she's worthy of the position. Which means she can show her worth through other methods, like teaching some of the toddler classes and volunteering on exchange expeditions with Camp Jupiter and making connections with her distant Roman relatives. Hopefully, Clarisse will notice her efforts and grant her that position she rightfully deserves.

"Everybody, shut up!" she yells at the children, who began to talk to her until she mentions the special word: "If you do, I'll give you chocolate!"

And just like that, everybody fell silent. Juliana exhales loudly and murmurs: "Thank fucking god!"

The kid must have had a supersonic hearing because a seven-year-old child of Hermes had caught her and gasp: "Juliana just swore!"

They start screaming at her again.

 _Kill me now._

* * *

Funnily, once Juliana broke out the chocolate and bribe them with extra lollipops, the kids become sweet little angels and stay beautifully silent as they march out of the sword fighting arena towards the amphitheatre and dissolve into their respective cabins. Tired with a migraine threatening to explode her head, Juliana return to where the Ares cabin is congregating. Like always, the Ares siblings are fighting amongst themselves.

Again.

Her day never ends, does it? _Think about it, Jules. When you become the counsellor, you'll have to deal with this every day._

Automatically, she slips into mother hen mode and rushes in to figure out the situation. It turns out someone has stolen someone's spear as a joke and now they're threatening to murder that person's entire family and their cat, blah, blah, blah, the usual. Do the fights between the Ares kids ever deter from its usual route? She steps in the middle of her two brothers, force both of them to apologise to each other, then set them apart and let them cool off until they forget the situation and find someone else to hate.

"So how are you?" Samantha Tamaguchi, her fellow Japanese Canadian sister, quips sarcastically when Juliana finally gets the chance to relax and occupy a seat beside her.

"Shut up," grumbles Juliana. "I don't understand why everybody in this fucking cabin always wants to kill each other."

Samantha shrug. "I don't know. Maybe it's because we're offsprings of the God of War?"

"Still, you think they have some strategic restraint," Juliana snorts, though her disdain is well-placed, she does actually care for her siblings a lot. Despite their flaws, they're good people. Sort of. "I honestly need a break. I just dealt with a bunch of seven-year-olds for sword-fighting, I don't need another."

"Hey, you volunteered," Samantha points out and sends her a wry grin:"And after this meeting, you also have to look after the cleaning duty washing station and make sure those Hermes kids actually do what they're doing."

"Please don't remind me. I just hope all this is worth it."

"Hey if it was a democracy, I'll vote for you."

Juliana laughs, letting the stress that was tightly knotted inside her chest unfold and pour out. Sometimes Juliana wonders if she should let the counsellor role go. After all, she'll be doing online classes from New Rome University pretty soon as the term starts this following September so she'll have all the free time in the world in Camp Half-Blood. If she didn't have the counsellor role, she'll be able to travel as much as she likes to, go to the classes as she usually does, maybe even take an internship with her father in one of his battles in the Middle East?

 _That actually sounds really good. But being the counsellor sounds great too. So what should I do? Should I go for the-_

"Attention everybody!" Chiron thumps his hoofs on the floor and the world lost its voice. Despite his middle-aged appearance of thinning brown hair and a scruffy five-o-clock shadow that is slowly encroaching across Chiron's face, Chiron still appears somewhat intimidating in his white centaur form and intense brown eyes. Behind him is Rachel Dare, the camp's oracle. Her dark red hair is strung up in a messily in a pin with locks of curly wayward hair hanging out while she sports one of those Forever 21 lace-up tops and a pair of denim shorts and John Lennon sunglasses perched on her forehead.

"I have grave news."

Juliana's eyebrows stitch together and lean in anticipation. Needless to say, she isn't the only one. Samantha straightens up at the prospect of 'grave news'. What could it possibly be?

"There's been a break-in at Katadiki."

Immediately, interests stir amongst the campers. The Athena Cabin is the only one who seems to take this news to heart, their eyes widening as they are the only people who know what Katadiki is. Juliana has heard the word thrown around before in cultural books and a few Ancient Greek texts but not in the sense that it is a place. Katadiki's literal translation in Greek is 'conviction'. She is not the only one confused. Chatter dominates the amphitheatre, rising up in a frenzy. Juliana can hear snippets of conversation flying back and forth:

"A break in-?"

"-wait, what?"

"What the Hades is that?'

"QUIET!" Chiron roar, his hoofs slamming onto the floor once more, ensuring a hushed silence that swallows the din of people's voices. Somewhere in Algeria, a neutrino sneezes, and everybody hears it perfectly fine.

Rachel Dare voluntarily steps in at the blank space of silence, emerging from the blended background. Though the redheaded oracle is quite short and marginal as compared to Chiron's centaur stature, she still maintains a strong presence. Everybody shifts their attention to her. She has changed so much since she first came. Now she's confident and eloquent, speaking without inflexion: "Katadiki is a prison...for demigods. It was built two years ago right after the Second Giant War when there's been an aftermath of paramilitary groups from Gaea's demigod forces. They were easily put down, of course, but there was no solution to what do we do with them. So, therefore, the Gods devised a plan- a prison for the worst demigods out there, from the criminal, for the dangerous, for the insane. And just last night, there's been a break-in by a group who call themselves The Celestials. This is not a surprise. For the last few months, there's been a…" Rachel pauses hesitantly, "...a disturbance. Something is going on."

Before even ten seconds after Rachel has finished her speech, uncontrollable exclamations break out from half the people in the amphitheatre. The news itself is too much to be borne: besides, the sight or even the thought of another apocalypse produce fear and anger automatically. Juliana freezes in her seat, congealed in her spot as the thought of another war looming toss and turn itself in her mind.

Though she isn't largely involved, she remembers those wars- the carnage, the death, the number of siblings she lost, the depression, fear and paranoia that seized the whole population of the camp. She doesn't know if she wants to see it again. Her brother, Alex, a son of Hermes, doesn't take much of those wars. He was only thirteen when it happened and as 'mature' as he claims himself to be when it happened, Alex didn't digest vividly what's going on around him during those wars. He was just part of a large shuffle of kids being packed into a bomb shelter underneath. Now he's fifteen and Juliana has hoped he could live out his teenage years in peace without dealing with any major spectacle but now…

"Everybody, relax," Rachel says, as her voice carries audibly through space. "It's just a bit of trouble here and there; so far, it's being managed. There's not even a prophecy-"

Midway through a sentence, Rachel stop herself. Her face is a tableau set in stone, her expression stretching in an almost comical way, mouth largely open and jaw muscles stretched. Then her green eyes glow completely emerald green, boring ultraviolets of neon green light into the horrified gaze of other teenagers. Like a string on a marionette, her body's limbs collapses under her weight only to be caught by Chiron, who gruffly order the trained Apollo campers to rush forward with a stool. They adjust Oracle-possessed Rachel onto the stool and mist ebbs out of Rachel's parted lips, words slithering out in a raspy, harsh voice that sounds like it's been having a throat infection for the last thousand years or so:

 _Born beneath the new moon on the night of the shadowed death,_

 _Comes the child, born of time, to be blown away in fate's breath,_

 _Parted in unison with the Triple Goddess Magi Prodigy,_

 _Comes a partnership that will doom the mortal world for eternity;_

 _Thus a new brethren of unlikely half-bloods are needed to rise,_

 _Along with other campers from Greece and Rome united side by side._

Juliana's throat closed up. Something definitely bigger than just a disturbance is coming along.

* * *

 **HEY GUYS so I'm opening up the SYOC again to recruit some 'enemy' demigods to make Isaiah's group a little more formidable. As I don't want to create all of the people in Isaiah's group, I decided it'd be better to open up the SYOC again and let people submit characters! Below are the rules and info to apply.**

RULES

1\. Review before submitting. I want to see what you think of my writing style and the setting of the story. Make sure you read the story to get an understanding of Isaiah, Lyra and the organisation.

2\. Send OCs through PM only. The reason for this is because if I have an enquiry on your character and being a Guest makes it difficult to reach to you,

3\. Detail is appreciated. Please put some love into those characters.

4\. No carbon copies of the original cast. You can have similarities; for example: So and so is broody and mysterious, like Nico but I also want different characters. Make sure you make them INTERESTING. Racial diversity is also extremely important. Don't be afraid to be very liberal to your characters- make them gay, transgender, I don't care. Actually, a transgender character sounds pretty lit.

-Sues and Gary-Stus. This is pretty self-explanatory. I mean, you're in Fanfiction and you have no idea what a Mary Sue is?

6\. There are going to be 5 Inner Circle Characters accepted and 5 Coven of Hecate. The rest will be qualified as Celestials and be treated as supporting characters. Pertaining to my third and fourth rule, the more detail and the more interesting your character is the most likely chance you'll get a spot. This won't be a first-come-first-serve basis.

7\. Speaking of characters, you can make them relate to the original cast but not directly. For example, your character could be a cousin of Leo from his mother's side or something like that but you can't be a sister or a brother as that complicates things.

9\. In order to make sure you've the rules, please put 'i like pizza' at the end of your form. And the form will also be on my profile. :)

ISAIAH'S ORGANISATION: The Celestials.

The Celestials was formed by Isaiah Wallace, a son of Kronos, who formed an organisation based on the beliefs that those of godly descent are proven to be a far superior race than the mortals. He doesn't understand why mortals are allowed to control the world while the demigods are forced to hide in camps and forced to shield their abilities under the Mist. He started this organisation on the basis of rescuing demigods from their abusive mortal parents but as they expand over the recent years, their motives have moved from innocent and uplifting to becoming supremacist and discriminatory to those of mortal heritage, who they view as 'unworthy' and slaves. Therefore, they are an organisation hell-bent on ensuring that demigods have the chance to become on top of the world and rule mortals as well as making sure that polytheists religions become the norm once more.

Inner Circle is the small group of people that surrounds Isaiah. Similar to how Goebbels, Himmler and Bormann are the inner circle to Hitler in Nazi Germany, these people are the inner circle who surround Isaiah and act as his trusted advisors. They are the people who are in leadership positions, such as the recruiting faculty, the army division, paramilitary group general, so on and so forth. Erika Freeman [Isaiah's childhood friend who helped him discover his abilities] is known to be one of these members.

Coven of Hecate is a faction within The Celestials led by Lyra Burke, a prodigal daughter of Hecate who is a master at the magic of illusion and manipulating the Mist in order to force you to believe whatever version of reality she wants you to believe. The Coven of Hecate is a group of demigods and legacies from Hecate, specially designed in helping the Celestial stay off the grid through magical assistance. People who are favoured by Hecate and therefore given special magical abilities are also accepted into the coven. The Coven's magic are not only limited through Greek magic; they are woven within Egyptian magic, Wiccan rituals, Nordic witchcraft, so on and so forth.

ENEMY FORM.

General

Name:

Full Name (First, Middle, & Last):

Nickname:

Age:

Gender:

Sexuality:

Appearance

Weight:

Height:

Skintone:

Race:

Hair (Length, style and anything else you want to put):

Eye (Color, shape anything you want):

Clothes:

Facial Structure:

Tattoos/Scars/Birthmarks:

Anything Else:

Any celebrity look alike?:

Mental/Emotional

Personality (Be descriptive- a paragraph MINIMUM):

Quirks:

Likes:

Dislikes:

Fears:

Hobbies:

Secrets:

Dreams for the future:

Introvert/Extrovert:

Optimist/Pessimist/Realist:

Fatal Flaw:

Background

Coven of Hecate: [yes or no, if yes please also include their relationship with Lyra and their affiliation with the group]

Inner Circle: [Yes or No, please also include their relationship with Isaiah and affiliation with the group]

History (how did they become in contact with the Celestials or rise up to join Isaiah's Inner Circle or Lyra's Coven of Hecate?)

Homelife:

Mortal Parent:

Divine Parent:

Roman/Greek:

Other Family:

Hometown:

Relationship with mortal parent:

Relationship with divine parent:

Battle

Weapon/s:

Powers: [if coven of Hecate, please specify their specialised abilities]

Armor:

Magical Items:

Skills:

Fighting Style:

How they act in battle (Both strategically and mentally):

Strengths:

Weaknesses:

Misc

Anything you want to see in the plot involving your character:

Theme Song?:

Thoughts on Gods:

Thoughts on Demigods:

Thoughts on Mortals:

Thoughts on the Celestials:

Thoughts on Isaiah:

Thoughts on Lyra:

Quotes:

Anything Else:


	6. 05

_**0.5**_

There always been something undoubtedly wrong about Lyra Burke.

Even before she has become the girl she is now. At seventeen, we know Lyra is worse than running rivers and worse than whistling winds, shaping the land in her own destructive ways. We know she is worse than the acid that slowly corrodes metal, turning it into nothing more than a shell of rust. People know she's a dangerous concoction that upon consumption will slowly gnaw and tear at your organs, blacken your heart with her venomous words, shrivel your lungs with her cigarette smoke, and taint your stomach with her bottles of liquor. She will take from you everything you have and give you only the satisfaction of knowing that you at least left with your life if you even get to keep that.

Lyra Burke is a poison, but she's also the sweetest kind. Lyra Burke tastes like saccharine, the nectar of a succulent flower or a honey from the sweetest hive. She's pure sugar that hides the bitter regret of ever trusting her. She'll make you feel special. Being friends or in love with her is like being a little drunk and tipsy, where all the edges of the world blur together. You'll have memories of running from the cops in black bikini tops, drinking cherry schnapps with crushed Vicodin pills and chugging tequila shots with college guys, stealing police cars and getting away with it because she fucked their boss. She'll lesbian-kiss you when a pervy guy is hitting on you, she'll share a cigarette with you as you two skip school and aimlessly drive around Hollywood and she'll send you a mischevious wink from across the room as you two share inside jokes. You think when you're with her, everything is wonderful and merry. Until she inevitably steals your boyfriend to prove a point or leak your nudes to embarrass you because _she was bored._ She will course through your veins and make you crumble faster than you could ever put yourself back together. The worst part is, you don't notice until you're already dust.

And you might wonder, what made her that way?

The thing is she has always been that way.

It's funny how such a wicked little child can be born from the loins of Hecate herself. Hecate was usually such a placating goddess, a warm soul at best. Maybe a little creepy and unnerving but Hecate was gentle as compared to the rest of the Greek and Roman deities, who were vengeful at best and psychotic at worst.

Lyra Burke was an Iranian orphan who was born out of wedlock in the middle of a refugee camp. Born a Muslim, she was named _Soraya Shivani_ by her father before he got blown to bits, which led to her being placed on the UNICEF Sponsor List. And when a gay couple, Everett and Raymond Burke, saw little baby Soraya on their computer, they did all they could do to ensure the adoption. Within a few months, little baby Soraya was renamed Lyra Burke and before she knew it, she found herself nestled in Egyptian cotton and living in the Burkes' West Hollywood apartment, being spoiled rotten and given everything she ever wanted.

But Lyra was twisted, despite her privilege, her luck, and she found this out when she was seven, along with her special abilities. You see, Lyra had a sister as well. Her name was Sage and she was better at everything that Lyra did. Lyra was popular because she bribed others to be her friends and people only hung around her because Lyra gave fancy goodie bags at her birthday parties while Sage was effortless, making people love her and navigate towards her without lifting a finger. Lyra got reasonable grades while Sage breezed through her ABCs with straight As and smiley stickers. Sage was taken to dinners and showered with praises and adoration while Lyra was just given an iPad and was told to go entertain herself. Lyra was of Iranian descent while Sage was _white._ Lyra was adopted but Sage was from a _surrogate._

Lyra despised Sage. She hated her adoptive sister with all possible rage that was beyond a seven year's old emotional capacity. And when she was seven, this hatred was put to its use. It began with the Barbie Playhouse Collection. Lyra wanted it but Sage got it. When Lyra asked if Sage could share, Sage said no. That made something inside Lyra snap. With clenched fists and gritted teeth, Lyra kept quiet. She didn't pull Sage's hair or punch her in the eye like she usually did because by now Lyra had learned her lesson. She knew that would just make her parents yell at her. So slowly, Lyra let her anger burn slowly in her mind.

During the summer, they vacationed at the Hamptons and spent a good majority playing along with their summer house by the beach. When their parents had wandered off to the stores and left them alone for a good five minutes at the beach, Lyra decided to push Sage into the water and dunked her head into the sea. She held on for a good three minutes until she heard one of her fathers scream at her to stop. She let go and Sage flopped onto the floor, breath sparse and cough out water. Lyra faced her parents, expecting for the beration to come.

But it didn't. For some strange reason, her parents thought _Sage_ was the one who tried to drown Lyra, which they decided to penalise Sage by shipping her off to some mental asylum. And Sage was never to be seen again for the next ten years of her life.

And that was how Lyra realised she had an ability, an ability to make people believe fiction, an ability to falsify reality and beguile minds.

From then on, Lyra lavished on her cruelty, her beauty, her powers and her money. With Sage away, Lyra was free to reign the social scene of Beverly Hills. As her parents neglect further, Lyra became some sort of a social bonafide in her school. At fourteen, she was a party queen of the 90210, a taped together mass of booze and sex and drugs; she was loud and unafraid and old enough to know why boys two years older than her invite her to parties and asked her to come over to their places. She broke hearts at her own volition- from girls crying about how Lyra has dumped yogurt all over their skirts and boys asking her to take them back to girls who pretended to be her friend for their own popularity and boys who only like her body and paid attention to her when she peeled her shirt off; Lyra bathed in her power to attract anyone to take a sip of her poison.

Her cruelty was even worse when she was fourteen and this was proven in the form of Adam Koo. Adam Koo was a former Straight A student of the debate team and former virgin before he came across Lyra. He adored Lyra from the moon and back and when Lyra inevitably grew bored of the relationship (she only dated him to experiment how she felt about good little boys with good grades and a warm home), she broke up with him. And when she brought up the topic to break it off with him, he threatened to hang himself if she left him. His only response was a laugh.

By next morning, he hung himself in his bedroom. Cori, Lyra's best friend, another collection of collateral damage, told her of the news, wispy eyes and wet cheeks, and just like Lyra's indifference when he threatened to kill himself, Lyra's reaction was an eye roll.

That was when Lyra thought she was actually fucking sick. It wasn't Sage who needed a mental institution, it was _her._

But she ignored it. She ignored the fact that was something wasn't entirely right with her- what with her inability to _feel any fucking thing._ She felt no guilt about Sage, not even a teardrop at Adam Koo's funeral and certainly no heartburn over Cori Weston's rape and eventual suicide. She didn't know what was exactly wrong with her- because the only time when she was able to _feel_ anything was when she was either drunk or high, which was why she dedicated her abilities in owning a collection of designer drugs and a constant supply of booze kept _somewhere_ near her.

But why should she be worried about the fact that she was practically a soulless robot? Her life was _awesome._ She was Queen of Briarwood Prep in Los Angeles, one of those Instagram bitches who modelled part-time living the high life, addicted to Xanax and coke, smoking whenever she could while blowing money like no tomorrow. However, Lyra just wasn't your typical _Regina George._ She wasn't your playground bully or someone who spread nasty rumours about you. She wasn't just ' _high school'._ She was the embodiment of hedonism with no morals and no values and a soul made out of plastic. She laughed in the face of sincerity, faith and sadness and scoffed at the mere idea of love while using the same notion to manipulate others to do what she wanted. She was a narcissistic sociopath, showered in Patron, Gucci, champagne, cocaine and gasoline with no regard to other people's emotions or even her own.

Which is why when the report of _Lyra Burke_ land on Isaiah's lap, he had never found anyone more perfect.

* * *

 _ **6 MONTHS AGO**_

"I don't understand the big fucking deal with this guy," was what Jack Landon said as he gazed downward to the clouds beneath him. He was nursing a Scotch, sipping slowly as he moved away from the rear window of the private jet and began his way through the spacious, carpeted aisle of Lyra Burke's jet. His whole skin tingled with being in _her_ jet, _near_ her, as she was cool, lounging on one of the couches, scrolling through Instagram. He hated her. He hated her lack of morals, her lack of indicative loyalty. It's been two months and he still can't decide whether she's for their cause or she's just toying with them, something that _piques_ her interest until she grows bored and sells them out. He hated how Isaiah insisted on how she was vital to their mission- what does a child of Hecate, a minor goddess just like his useless excuse of a mother, had anything to _do_ with ensuring that demigods had a better life within the world?

"He's important," Lyra said when in reality, Jack had directed that question to Isaiah, who is humming to himself with his earphones plugged in. Jack throw Lyra an annoyed glance, who is fully decked in designer gear, tucked into a heavy white fur coat that seemed to weigh down her body. She moves a tangle of dead straight dark hair from the right side of her head to the left, and back again. She quirks an eyebrow, then bats a weighty set of fake eyelashes and twirl with the silver and a possibly diamond-encrusted crucifix hanging from her neck.

Jack sneer, which is even more sinister than your usual sneers due to his feral mouth consisting of sharp canines that poke out. "I didn't ask you, bitch."

Jack is never one of those people who hid his anger under a smokescreen of passive aggressive antagonization with underlying snarky comments and fake smiles. In fact, Jack is always upfront with hs emotions; he's sharp edges with acid words but they're honest and true and he pairs his words with a serial killer smile. You _know_ when he's pissed- because his mannerisms become predictable; his words are laced with poison, like roses with thorns, and his smiles are full of knives before he cut you down.

Lyra, however, is all for it. Like a mothering nurse, she pushes down her Gucci 1962 Lolita-inspired heart-shaped sunglasses ( _seriously?_ Jack wants to roll his eyes, _you're wearing sunglasses inside a fucking aeroplane?)_ and pouts out her matte nude coloured lips. "What's wrong?"

"You're a fucking psycho, that's what's wrong."

Lyra returns her attention to her iPhone, barely looking up as she continues to scroll down. "Babe, you're sitting in my _private_ jet so if you ever want to parachute down all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, you're more than-"

"Enough," Isaiah's quiet voice pilfer the entrance. Amusement plays in his tone as a secondary customer to the annoyance. Their attention swivel to Isaiah, sprawled across his lounge like a predatory cat. Jack watch Isaiah's blond hair flash in the sunlight like it's catching fire. There's darkness on the horizon, a smudge where the storm is growing outside the aeroplane. "Both of you are squabbling like children. According to Lyra, someone key to our mission is in London. Lyra insists he's powerful. Besides, didn't you want to come?"

 _Because I'm worried she might go stark-raving mad, double-cross us and kill us all in this plane,_ Jack wants to mutter but he holds his tongue.

"What a shame," tsks Jason Drake, stretching his body against the comfortable plush armchair. The show he had been watching had been put on pause. His loose jeans, white tank top and black hoodie is not enough for warmth in London's chilly winter and then later, Amsterdam, because Lyra said she needed some witchcraft supplies, which sounds as ridiculous as it did when it first came out of her mouth. Whenever Jason speaks, he always sounds like he's angry- even more so than Jack- and he's the pure epitome of a resting bitch face, which is further emphasized with those stormy greyish green eyes and coal black messy hair that hid most of his face; so they aren't taking it personally as his scowl accompany his speech: "I was actually hoping for some entertainment on board."

"There's forty-nine channels on this private jet, Jase," Finnic Macduff or 'Finn'-as he prefers to be referred to- deadpans, surprising everybody with his level of speech. He never really says anything, which Jack know Isaiah likes- because quiet and obedient with unwavering loyalty is Isaiah's version of the perfect soldier. Frankly, Jack disagrees. The perfect soldier must be able to think for themselves- because, in moments of emergency, improvisation was the clue. "There's even _porn._ And if you are going to entertain yourself, please turn the other way. I don't want looking at your dick to ruin my appetite."

Erika lets out a bark of laughter from the other side with Jack following her. "For fuck's sake, Finn," Erika remarks, running a hand through her matted hair. In torn jeans, worn Stan Smith Adidas sneakers and a tank top underneath a flannel top, Erika looks extremely out of place in the luxurious private jet with cream-coloured sofas and armchairs, decorated along with embroidered throw pillows, glass terrariums of pink orchids on the coffee table, the collection of pricey liquors by the corner and plush beige carpet with air freshener and lavender perfume dense in the air.

Lyra sighs and shoves her sunglasses from her face, revealing her face carefully done in makeup. "I'm going to the bathroom," she promptly announces. Nobody cared, of course.

Jack lands himself on a vacant seat, which is next to Isaiah, who resumes to reading his Bible and listening to music. "Are you sure London is not a waste of time?" Jack voices his underlying suspicions in his question, which is _are you sure Lyra Burke is trustworthy?_

"I trust her decisions," Isaiah simply says, one earphone dangling, lifting his cool blue eyes of the Bible. His rosary beads are placed as a bookmark. "Don't you?"

"Erika and I were the ones who drafted her report. You only read a bit of it. She's _actually_ insane. She threw her own sister into an asylum, she led a kid to suicide- no, wait that's _two_ because she orchestrated for her best friend to be raped. What the actual fuck, Isaiah?"

Isaiah is silent. Probably because he knows Jack is right. Isaiah is sombre and pensive as he dictates his thoughts silently; Jack has known Isaiah since...since before everyone had joined them. Before Finn and Jason became part of their Inner Circle. When Isaiah and Erika were free-wheeling thirteen-year-olds who practised time travelling whenever they could. He remembers admiring them, even though they were the same age because he thought they were _so_ cool. Isaiah could go anywhere he wanted- in any century, any place, the ultimate manipulator of space and time. Erika was just pure awesomeness with her wit and sarcasm but yet her reliable personality accounts for her worth. She's the mother hen, who tended to their wounds and gave them kick-ass pep talks. They're practically his family.

"I know she's unstable," Isaiah mumbles quietly, "I know we can't exactly decide her intentions but she's immensely powerful. She's just not a normal daughter of-"

The bathroom door flung open. Lyra's anorexic figure stumbles out in those unpractical high heels and stalks her way down to the aisle. Jack notice a slight dusting of white powder on her nose. She slumps down in her seat and clicks her fingers for the air stewardess, who has been beautifully deceived under the Mist to hide their weapons and conceal their armour. When the air stewardess nods at Lyra's order and walks away, Lyra's recently lipstick-applied lips twist into another one of her smirks and look back at them: "So what were you guys just talking about?"

* * *

 ** _CURRENTLY IN LONDON_**

Will Adler- or William Adler, if you want to get a little fancy with it- always live by the motto: **Early to bed** and **early to rise** , makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise. A very methodical approach towards his morning routines- Will like to start his day at seven because his shift starts at 8:30 and it's all the way in London. He lives in Essex and not in the city centre because property prices in London are ridiculous and unless he fancies living in a cardboard box, he decides on a small, generous apartment- or flat, if you wanted to get British on the other fringes. He starts his day early because he doesn't like to rush through his daily goings and it takes a thirty-minute commute on the Tube towards the city.

After changing into a fresh set of clothes, brushing his teeth (right side three times, left side three times, front three times) and splashing his face with three handfuls of cold water, Will promptly head out towards his kitchenette. He props three toasts in the toaster and heats up three oz of milk on the boiler while with a flick of his finger, the coffee moved telepathically from the cupboard towards him- _telekinesis perks-_ Will hum excitedly. He prefers his tea at night and his coffee in the morning because it offers a perfect way to jolt him up into alertness. Along with cold water to the face, it helps drag him out of the heavy pillows of sleep. In his opinion, tea is the perfect way to wind down after a long day at work but coffee is the best thing to wake up to.

As he pours his milk into his coffee, add three sugars and stir three times, he moves towards the corner of his apartment at the makeshift table, which is really his white windowsill, but Will like to use that area to drink his coffee as he watch the daily goings of human influx through the streets. Even though it's been a year, he always finds London extremely fascinating, constantly absorbing into its atmosphere. It reminded her of New York in the States, completed a course of cycles: people rippling through the streets, cruising about their lives, every corner exploding with vibrancy and a veritable variety of entertainment to be on the lookout for. Even at the mere peak hour of seven, when everything is supposed to be soft—the colours, the surfaces, the way people looked in that heavenly, almost godly morning yellow glow and every movement appear sluggish and slow, London is going about at breakneck speed. But strangely, not this morning. Expecting rush hour, Will finds it strange how it's actually pretty empty. Only a few individuals are out; obsessed workaholics discussing the stock exchange or something just as uninteresting on their phones as they sip their morning espresso. A few others are running in and out of buildings, fetching forgotten errands. The shops and bakeries aren't even open yet, with the exception of the convenience store down the block and the 24/7 pharmacy a few stores down.

But Will doesn't make much of it. Instead, he opens the notebook hidden under a series of heavy books and begin jotting down yesterday's dreams. Ever since the murder of his twin brother, Gale, his clairvoyant dreams are getting more vivid, clearer. Before Gale's death, it was just obscure shapes and uneasy feelings. Now there are clear faces and travels towards people's life as if he's watching movie reels of random people's lives. But they are _never_ random. Being a clairvoyant, every dream, every vision, every mirage _counts_ as something meaningful, something important. But what is their importance and what is their meaning?

The most frustrating about it is that you never know until you look at it in retrospect. That's one of the lessons he learned from Gale's death.

Nonetheless, his dreams had been a series of repetitions of the same people- a small blonde boy with piercing blue eyes teleporting through different places and seemingly different time zones with another girl, whose face was dark and dirty with mud splotches but he had a good feeling about her; something about her screamed home and maternal kindness. Usually, he catches snippets of that little boy's life through his dreams. Just the other week, he had witnessed the little boy being thrown into a cupboard and an insane woman banging on the door while flinging Bible verses and proclamations of the end of the world and the Antichrist at the poor, scared creature. A few days ago, he had a dream about that same boy being bullied on the playground, labelled as a _Jesus Freak_ and _Christian Terrorist-_ and those were the _nice, moderate_ insults. Will have no doubt those dreams are relevant in their own respect and they are most certainly real- it's either something that _has_ happened or _will_ happen. Figuring out _which_ is the tricky part.

Another series of dreams he's been having features a girl. He has a vision of a baby girl, being wrapped in a dirty cloth, sleeping peacefully in a tent as a woman in a _hijab_ hummed her songs in an unknown language. The woman was dark haired, beautiful but deathly pale for an Arab and her face was like a Greek Statue- ageless, gorgeous and cold. Instantly, Will knew he was looking at his mother, the goddess Hecate. But Hecate didn't seem to notice him. She carries on rocking the child in her hands and then outside of the tent, William heard a loud _boom!_ Outside the tent, through the flaps of the fragile film, clouds of shrapnel and dust explode in the air. It sounds like God's chainmail is being smashed on the Earth and Will can tell that uranium bombs are being rained upon the world outside.

"Poor baby," Hecate coo, stroking its cheek, "To be born in such conditions."

William frown at that image before being taken away to a beach, where two seven-year-old girls seem to be squabbling by the waves and then one of them- one with dark hair and dark eyes push the blonde girl into the water and held her down until someone from the distance screams at her to stop. Another dream features the same dark haired girl, just a little older. She's in the car with a boy, who's built like trucks and tree trunks but he's fresh-faced with big blue eyes. She's smoking and she's wearing fewer clothes than a prostitute; she looks no less than thirteen and yet her eyes are rimmed with thick eyeliner and her makeup is red and ripe. "You want to get back to my place, babe?"

She's silence and darkness as she coolly sucks on her cigarette. William is transfixed as he examines her and for some strange reason when he stares straight into her, he feels as if she knows he's there- even though it's just a dream. "Babe?" the boy asks again.

The girl rolls her eyes, "My name isn't _babe._ It's Lyra."

And the dreams end from there. He encircles some of his notes on the paper and thinks. That's all he has so far. He sighs. He finishes the remainder of his coffee and head outside.

 **ACCEPTED CHARACTERS:**

 **MAIN CHARACTERS, OFFICIALLY DECIDED:**

Evelyn Clearwater, 16, Greek, Daughter of Morpheus, Female, Incarcerated for: Dangerous, Mental Instability.

Nadia Marie Williams, 19, Roman, Daughter of Fortuna, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Marisol Clarice Hunt, 19, Greek, Daughter of Mania, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

James Silas Moretti, 18, Greek, Son of Aphrodite, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Jaekwan Lee, 19, Roman, Son of Neptune, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Attempted Murder.

Roman Daniel Sokolov, 17, Roman, Son of Victoria, Male, Incarcerated for Drugs and Murder.

 **SUPERVISORS:**

Christopher Michael Johnson, 18, Greek, Male, Son of Hermes.

Santiago Rafael Nieves-Linde, 20, Roman, Son of Sylvanus, Male.

Juliana Greer, 18, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Leilani Shay Kahala, 14, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

 **SUPPORTING CASTS:**

Emmet Grayson Blake, 15, Greek, Son of Hephaestus, Male, Incarcerated for: Attempted Murder.

Adrian Ulysses Dusk, 17 (going on 18), Roman, Son of Apollo, Male, Incarcerated for: The Dusk Plagues, Murder.

Carmen Santanico Alverez, 16, Greek, Son of Dionysus, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason [Gaea's Side]

Kaisu Suzuki Takakuro, 15, Greek, Son of Apate, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ries Edward Duncan, 18, Greek, Son of Ares, Male, Incarcerated for: Abuse of Power

Malina Maruska, 18, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Matthew James Cardinal, 20, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Chelsia Elizabeth Noxley, 17, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Dean Alex Johnson, 17, Greek, Son of Lycan, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ajax Uriel Walker, 21, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Murder.

 **SUPPORTING CASTS [FOR CAMPS]:**

Kira Lu, 15, Greek, Daughter of Ares (Adopted by Artemis), Female.

Kathryn Huang, 16, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Samantha Tamaguchi, 17, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Abigale Rebecca Saunders, 16, Greek, Daughter of Khione, Female.

Daewon Kim, 20, Roman, Son of Mars, Male.

Larissa Samnang Ros, 19, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

 **INNER CIRCLE:**

Finnic Theodore Macduff, 19, Greek, Son of Poseidon, Male

Erika Freeman, 17, Greek, Daughter of Tychon, Female.

Jack Landon, 18, Greek, Son of Eris, Male.

Jason Drake, 18, Greek, Son of Nemesis, Male.

 **COVEN OF HECATE:**

Will Adler, 19, Greek, Son of Hecate, Male.

Lyra Burke, 17, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Asta Vik, 18, Roman, Daughter of Somnus, Female.

Winslow 'Winnie' March, 18, Roman, Legacy of Trivia, Female.

 **Thanks to everybody for submitting a character! Hope you review and love! Next chapter will focus on the Roman camp and what have happened in the third chapter!**


	7. 06

0.6

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.

Thus these are the sentences repeated over and over in Leilani Kahala's head and out loud for the first waking moments on Election Day. She clamber out of her bed, her head feeling as if the whole head is going to split apart, tripped over the shoes she somehow manage to get off last night, check the alarm clock, splutter out another string of expletives, grab a robe from the floor and stumble into the conjoining bathroom of the cohort at the end of the hall.

The cohort is extremely empty, something which Leilani appreciates as she staggers towards the sink and turns on the tap of cold water. She splashes her face with cold water, hunch over the sink and attempts to collect herself. Her large doe grey-eyes scans her appearance and cringes at the sight of herself, her hair is wild and messy, her makeup from last night is smudged all over her face- her eyeliner is splotchy all over her eyes, making her look like a panda, and her lipstick is now nothing but a mere shadow all outside the lines of her lips, as if a child had used her face as a colouring book and everything is outside the lines- and she still has the clothes on from last night, a revealing crop top that exposes her midriff and short shorts that exposes her succulent thighs, all of which reeks of last night's indiscretions- a gag-inducing whiff of cigarettes and the underside of a dirty pub.

"I'm never drinking again," Leilani swears profusely at her half-dead reflection, "I'm never looking at alcohol again, I don't want to hear the word vodka ever again, I-" But she decides not to finish that sentence, in favour of rushing to the toilet, flipping over the lid and emptying the contents of her stomach into the bowl. Behind her, there is a twinkle of a familiar laugh by the doorway,

"Jesus," Larissa Ros mutters when Leilani flushes the toilet, moans as she trudges back to the tap and run her hand under water, washing her mouth.

"Shut up," Leilani says and reaches for her toothbrush.

"Do you know it's Election Day, right?" Larissa leans across the bathroom's opening ledge. "Why the fuck did you go to Dakota's party yesterday? They're so...trashy."

"Hey, Dakota is a sweetheart," defends Leilani, slightly muffled by the toothbrush moving around in her mouth, "Besides, I could just sleep through Election Day and then when it comes to voting procedures, I'll clap for Marcus."

Larissa bites the corner of her lips, "Do you think he actually stands a chance of becoming Praetor?" Larissa is the campaign manager for Marcus's petition to become praetor. After a few weeks of inventive advertisement projects for Marcus's bid for Praetor, Leilani can see the anxiety in Larissa that hopes all her hard work help make Marcus their Praetor. After all, it's been years since any demigod from the Third Cohort has become Praetor.

"Positive."

Larissa sighs, "You're not just saying that because you want me to buy you a coffee, right?"

Leilani smiles tightly. "Well, it wouldn't hurt if you did."

"Fuck you, Lani," but the smile creeping up Larissa Ros's lips indicated otherwise.

Larissa Ros is one of the few people Leilani actually really like in the Third Cohort. Sure, they're siblings and being well-liked in Leilani's book isn't technically difficult to qualify for but Larissa Ros, for all her qualities, is one of those people you can't hate. For one, despite Leilani's constant fuckups, hangovers and arriving late to Senate assemblies, Larissa was always there to cover for her. Larissa struck Leilani as somewhat of a cool mum, like the mum who was free-range and relaxed but was disciplined when she needed to be. Nonetheless, that's how Leilani find herself outside one of the cafes in New Rome by the banks of the Little Tiber, sipping on an Americano as she watches the world around her from the darkened shades of her aviators.

They are at one of the most popular cafes of New Rome- La Coffea- and they replicate many of the Italian specialities that can be found in Rome- the actual Rome so their coffee is of high quality. There is no watered down macchiato and ridiculously sweet iced coffee; there is only the creamy richness of the milk delivered from Italy and the finest coffee beans and amazing Italian pastries, baked to similar Roman recipes. The place felt extremely Brooklyn, replicating a very hipster, rustic feel with its industrial furniture, stripped floors and Edison bulbs.

Nonetheless, Saturday mornings by La Coffea calls for quite a crowded atmosphere so there is a collective buzz of chatter of Roman families and veterans and demigods who are free from their activities. "Do you need some food?" Larissa inquires actively, "I know that hangovers tend to require greasy food to balance out the alcohol-"

"Rissa, I'll be fine," Leilani promise but a warm tension expands in her stomach because Larissa is acting like the mother Leilani never really had. "Honestly."

Despite Larissa's insistence that she hated taking care of teenagers as she seen them as adults who should be able to take care of their own issues, Larissa had developed a strange connection to Leilani ever since she arrived at the Roman camp just eight months ago. Maybe it's because they are placed in the same cohort and share the same godly parents but Larissa is like the big sister Leilani never had, which isn't much of a measurement of greatness as there's not much of a figure Leilani had in her life but it is something nonetheless. Larissa is generally quite introverted in the most sense and prefers to spend her time tinkering in the Vulcan forgery but she always made time for Leilani. Even during Marcus's campaigns. "I swear this year's campaign for Praetorship had been brutal," sigh Larissa. "I've never come across so much sabotage between cohorts before. Honestly! It's like we're having our own equivalent of the Presidential debate. Now that all that Gaea war thing is over, there are not many quests to do to prove yourself as a leader so it's all dependent on gimmicks, speeches and public opinion."

"I think you helped Marcus a lot," supply Leilani cheerfully, "I mean, that flying eagle you built to advertise his campaign banner? Awesome and who came up with that slogan: Make Camp Jupiter Great Again? You did. It was a genius."

Larissa blush. "Thanks. Anyway, um, we should probably head down to the Senate. The election should be starting soon."

It's only been less than a year since Leilani arrived at Camp Jupiter so she has never ever seen a live Election take place in Camp Jupiter. They happen every six years or so- Praetors are usually chosen when they're sixteen and they'll run the camp until they graduate from college. As they embark to new places in their lives where they embrace adulthood, marriage, jobs and working life, new praetors are elected to take care of the Camp and ensure it runs safely. From what Leilani hears, it's quite a massive event. All the cohorts are demanded to go and some of the veterans that retired into New Rome also show up so it's about a thousand people watching the debate and putting in their votes. A true democracy as one should call it.

There are no prerequisites to being a praetor. Of course, popularity and having a rank as a centurion helps but as long as you win the majority vote, you're set.

Leilani could see the bottleneck by the security lines as OCD-prone Terminus is being super extra, even going as far as asking someone to search through their own underwear for hidden weapons. However, suddenly, as Leilani and Larissa are about to join the end of the line, there is a loud bang! Leilani flinches as she narrowly avoids somebody being flung upon her and look back out front to see what have happened, only to have the son of Hades, the Ambassador of Pluto, brandishing his sword and panting heavily as he has accidentally ended up on Terminus's head. Leilani almost smiles at the situation- until she realises that it's quite inappropriate to do so.

"Bah! Sons of Pluto and your unpredictable black magic!" Terminus scowls, pushing the boy off, _"Bloody Graceus!"_

Nico wisely chooses not to listen Terminus's outbursts and further Latin expletives, turning his wild eyes and mangled state towards the confused campers, who now edge away from the son of Hades as a purplish black aura surrounds his battered leather jacket, ripped jeans and Stygian sword.

"Camp Jupiter, we have a crisis! An emergency meeting," Nico announce and sees Reyna emerging from the Senate, wearing her purple cloak and her two metal dogs lapping at her heel, teeth snarling and ready to attack.

"Nico, what is-? Why are you-"

"It doesn't matter," Nico snaps at her, "We have an emergency. We need an assembly now."

* * *

In some respect, hedonism comes in many forms- but if you want to get all godly about it, hedonism is best known in the form of Bacchus. But people tend to forget that hedonism is embodied in all the Gods- what with Zeus and his lustful pursuit of buxom women and Eris and her wanton need for destruction so Roman isn't too surprised when he turn out the way he did, even though he's a child of Victoria- the Roman Goddess of Victory.

Roman supposes one of the qualities he inherits from his mother is his incessant need to win every goddamn argument and his inability to accept help from anybody.

But that's not important anyway.

"Hey, yo," Roman grits his teeth as one of the guards tightens the Imperial Gold cuffs on his wrist until they pinched his skin, "Lessen up on the pressure, dude. I'm probably like one of the most chill prisoners. I didn't even kill a demigod or join What's-Her-Name."

The guard pauses and bears him a look that says _are you serious, dude?_ Well, at least Roman likes to think that's what the guard would've done if the guard isn't a dead ghost from Asphodel and had eyes in its sockets but one can dream.

"Alright, not a joker, okay," Roman chuckle, not letting the nervousness trickle into his tone. He avoids the awkward tension by looking out and still find himself stunned by what is in front of him.

It's not the scratched walls of his cell and it's not another bucket of nails that need to be hauled across Elysium to build a brand new mansion for its inhabitants. It's the red transect lines of Golden Gate Bridge and rows of cars, trucks and buses lined by him in parallels as they are now stuck in rush-hour traffic. Being raised a native New Yorker, the thought of hearing the beautiful horns and traffic and life of the mortal world never crosses his mind as beautiful but as the glaring morning sunlight bathes him in this holy glow, he breathes deeply and studies everything- the way the water below the bridge glimmers with the scintillating sunlight, how the hills rise up into the sky like God's fist and how robin blue the sky is- like a picturesque view that just come out of a postcard. Even though he's not even truly experiencing the sun and the crisp mortal air by being handcuffed to a prison bus where the air-conditioning isn't really working and the atmosphere is reeking of the guards of Asphodel's death breath, he soaks it up.

The reason why all the leftover prisoners are being bussed out of Katadiki, which is located in the Underworld, is because, after the prison riot, Katadiki was in no shape to house any inmates. Thus they're being shipped off to another temporary facility as of the current moment since Katadiki is being reconstructed.

Roman couldn't believe he missed the chaos- he had actually slept through the commotion of people smashing Katadiki bars and escaping prisoners and the guards finally snapping out of their spells and putting people down. Sometimes, Roman wishes he could shoot himself.

This is one of those times.

It doesn't matter anyway. Sure, he missed the perfect opportunity to escape but his sentence was almost up. No point in trying to risk it then so maybe it was a good thing he missed the chance.

The bus carries on being stuck in rush-hour San Francisco morning traffic for another forty-five minute before it lumbers off towards the Bay Area. When it suddenly stops, it pauses in front of a service tunnel that's not too far from the Caldecott Tunnel in the Oakland Hills. In front of the tunnels, two demigods and Nico Di Angelo stands in front. Both of them are adorned with purple cloaks and eagle medals. One of them has two metal dogs by her heels, inadvertently yapping and barking as the bus driver- a guard of Asphodel- clambers out. Nico Di Angelo communicates to the bus driver- and judgement from the son of Hades grim face and sharp movements, it's not a casual inquiry about the weather.

"I think we're here," one of the prisoners- Roman is pretty sure his name is Jaekwan- remarks with this shit-eating grin. "Roman camp here we come! Might be a good thing. Staring at walls had been a little bit of a bore."

"Don't get your hopes up," snort Roman, "We might be forced to strip naked and let them prod around out buttholes for weapons."

Jaekwan smirks at him, "Sounds like you're speaking from experience."

"I think you're holding his sexual affinities in a much higher regard than it actually is," A voice from the back comments. She's the girl with the crazy, tangled black hair and soft green eyes that contrasts with her harsh-looking face. It's Marisol Hunt, daughter of Mania and resident crazy bitch. Well, one of the resident crazy bitches around there. The other is the one humming R-Rated Disney songs in Greek translations while combing her hair and giggling at nothing in particular.

"That's true," another boy speaks up. It's James Moretti, who is idly tracing a finger up and down his headrest and one of the most beautiful, fuckable things Roman has ever seen. James is one of those boys who is painfully aware of how he looks and uses it to his utmost advantage. "I think it's more about me."

Jaekwan comes in with his razor-sharp disposition: "Oh please, James. You're kind of a slut. It's not that hard to make that distinction." This earns Jaekwan a round of scattered laughter- from Roman included.

James places a handcuffed pair of hands on his chest. "I'm wounded you think of me in such a low way."

There was another round of weak laughter before the door opened and Nico Di Angelo's grim expression transformed into a snarl as he marched into the bus and stood at the front, interrupting whatever chatter that occurred and dispersing into a strict silence at the presence of the son of Hades. "Okay, everybody listens up! All of you know that there's been a break-in at Katadiki. While some prisoners have escaped, everybody- and I'm saying everybody- is working on trying to find them. Nonetheless, Katadiki is in no shape to house any prisoners as of the moment and Camp Jupiter has decided to extend their hospitality-" Roman scoffs and Nico heard but ignores, "-to you while we fix the prison. Be on your best behaviours or not you will regret it."

* * *

 **AHH! sorry for the late update but here it is! hope you enjoy and please review. :)**

 **AND HERE IS NOW THE FULL-CAST!**

 **ACCEPTED CHARACTERS:**

 **MAIN CHARACTERS, OFFICIALLY DECIDED:**

Evelyn Clearwater, 16, Greek, Daughter of Morpheus, Female, Incarcerated for: Dangerous, Mental Instability.

Nadia Marie Williams, 19, Roman, Daughter of Fortuna, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Marisol Clarice Hunt, 19, Greek, Daughter of Mania, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

James Silas Moretti, 18, Greek, Son of Aphrodite, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Jaekwan Lee, 19, Roman, Son of Neptune, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Attempted Murder.

Roman Daniel Sokolov, 17, Roman, Son of Victoria, Male, Incarcerated for Drugs and Murder.

 **SUPERVISORS:**

Christopher Michael Johnson, 18, Greek, Male, Son of Hermes.

Santiago Rafael Nieves-Linde, 20, Roman, Son of Sylvanus, Male.

Juliana Greer, 18, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Leilani Shay Kahala, 14, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

 **SUPPORTING CASTS:**

Emmet Grayson Blake, 15, Greek, Son of Hephaestus, Male, Incarcerated for: Attempted Murder.

Adrian Ulysses Dusk, 17 (going on 18), Roman, Son of Apollo, Male, Incarcerated for: The Dusk Plagues, Murder.

Carmen Santanico Alverez, 16, Greek, Son of Dionysus, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason [Gaea's Side]

Kaisu Suzuki Takakuro, 15, Greek, Son of Apate, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ries Edward Duncan, 18, Greek, Son of Ares, Male, Incarcerated for: Abuse of Power

Malina Maruska, 18, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Matthew James Cardinal, 20, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Chelsia Elizabeth Noxley, 17, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Dean Alex Johnson, 17, Greek, Son of Lycan, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ajax Uriel Walker, 21, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Murder.

 **SUPPORTING CASTS [FOR CAMPS]:**

Kira Lu, 15, Greek, Daughter of Ares (Adopted by Artemis), Female.

Kathryn Huang, 16, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Samantha Tamaguchi, 17, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Abigale Rebecca Saunders, 16, Greek, Daughter of Khione, Female.

Daewon Kim, 20, Roman, Son of Mars, Male.

Larissa Samnang Ros, 19, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

 **INNER CIRCLE:**

Finnic Theodore Macduff, 19, Greek, Son of Poseidon, Male

Erika Freeman, 17, Greek, Daughter of Tychon, Female.

Jack Landon, 18, Greek, Son of Eris, Male.

Jason Drake, 18, Greek, Son of Nemesis, Male.

Mackenzie Cordell, 19, Roman, Daughter of Mars, Female.

 **COVEN OF HECATE:**

Will Adler, 19, Greek, Son of Hecate, Male.

Lyra Burke, 17, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Asta Vik, 18, Roman, Daughter of Somnus, Female.

Winslow 'Winnie' March, 18, Roman, Legacy of Trivia, Female.

 **THANKS FOR ALL OF THOSE WHO SUBMITTED!**


	8. 07

**DOUBLE UPDATE, HEY! DIDN'T EXPECT THAT? YEPPPP anyway, updated cast list down below after the story!**

0.7

No one will look at her in the eye.

They avoid her eye contact as if she's capable of transferring guilt and sins and a million of things through her pupils. In places with a concentrated number of teenagers, Nadia finds that Camp Jupiter and their mob mentality of be-like-us-or-get-out is very much like the cutthroat world of high school where you can either join them and swear unwavering loyalty to them or stuck out like a sore thumb and be a loser for the next four years of your life.

"So this is where you will be sleeping."

Nadia lets a sigh pass out of her lips as Daewon gestures at the makeshift Murphy bed by the edge of the Fourth Cohort's barracks. "You understand?"

Daewon questions her as he directs his rich dark brown gaze onto Nadia's petite, slim figure. There is a slight shyness in his tone- a hesitance in his words when he spoke to her. Of course, Nadia thinks bitterly. After all, Daewon and her used to be pretty good friends since they were in the same cohort. Despite having different personalities, with Daewon preferring to blend with the backgrounds and Nadia wanting to win everything in sight, they got along well and they had to- because they went a mission together with another old friend of theirs, Leila. They were successful until Nadia, of course, betrayed him.

Which is just classic Nadia.

She remembers that mission clearly- they had to venture out to New York, seek out the Nemean Lion, slaughter it and bring back the spoils to Olympus. When she was picked out to be part of that mission, Nadia felt insulted. How dare they? Nadia remembers fuming about it- after six months of tolerating every stupid fool in her cohort and moulding herself to be the poster picture for Roman Demigods, Nadia thought they would've given her a quest that would catapult her to greatness and make everybody love her. It's all she ever wanted.

Nadia remembers fuming about it- after six months of tolerating every stupid fool in her cohort and moulding herself to be the poster picture for Roman Demigods, Nadia thought they would've given her a quest that would catapult her to greatness and make everybody love her. It's all she ever wanted.

She already had money with her father being the mogul of a successful investment company in the sunny hills of Los Angeles and the privilege of swiping his premium AmEx card whenever she was bored. Not to mention, her mother was the goddess of wealth so even if her father finally decides to cut her off from spending too much money on luxury handbags, she wouldn't really be deprived in that department. So what else she wanted?

Power and glory, of course. And back when she was the Queen of the Hollywood scene, she had legions at her command. Queen Bee in her very own right, Nadia ruled her court with an iron fist. Gossip magazines worshipped her and members of Beverly Hills's elite wanted to be her friend. But Nadia didn't like friends- or even allow herself to invest emotionally into relationships because emotions were just a gateway to weakness.

Until that boy came along and stripped away every inch of self-respect and dignity she had for herself. Nadia tastes bitterness and _Milano_ cookies in her mouth at the thought of him [the same sort of _Milano_ cookies she had stuffed herself with when she wallowed in self-pity in her _Cosabella_ PJ set after he had abandoned her without any calls or texts to explain]. Her fists clenched at the fact that she had allowed herself to be treated that way, to be discarded and abused in such a manner. Her, Nadia Williams, who was used in being blinded by the paparazzi's cameras' flashing lights, had given her heart out to someone who she thought would care for and love her. And when she was willing to give up her lifestyle of luxury and privilege for him (a true Shakespearean sacrifice- so terribly _Flaubert_ of her), how she personally stole money from her father and set up an offshore account with enough to sustain a life for both of them, he had abandoned her on the plane.

She couldn't face her father after that. She couldn't face the embarrassing tabloid theories and the nosy articles making claims about her disappearance. She couldn't face the fact that she had fallen for somebody on the lower rungs of society and he had the nerve to abandon her. Elaborate stories of how Nadia Williams must've escaped to some exotic location, fabulously dressed in expensive bikinis while sipping _Mai Tais_ and admiring the crystal waters of an exclusive private beach or how her father was tired of her shit [which is not really that far from the truth] and had shipped her off to a strict boarding school in the Swiss Alps circled around the social scene when Nadia stopped showing up in their events.

Nonetheless, when the opportunity of Camp Jupiter and discovering herself as a demigod fell into the lap one fine morning and she saw ways of re-inventing herself and fashioning herself as some sort of Queen Bee of Camp Jupiter. She was so excited to start new and claim her stake in the demigod world...only to find that bribing everybody with a goodie bag of _Gucci's_ best collections was not how Camp Jupiter operated. Instead, in order to gain favour with everybody, it was done through accomplishments and victory. Which was fine.

Nadia was willing to adapt and she did. Nadia knew she was destined for greatness and yet they gave her the most basic demigod mission of all time. Nemean Lion was such a classic demigod mission that it might've been a demigod equivalent of passing your driving test.

The point being was that when the Titans offered a position of wealth and greatness within their commands, who was she to turn them down? All she had to do was betray her fellow demigods. Easier done than said. Nadia is one of those types of friends who is willing to swear love and forever until the situation arises where she'll easily trade them for a single french fry.

In total honesty, Nadia knows she's selfish- and honestly, who isn't? But Nadia's selfishness and ambition are what led her to her demise as her association with the Titans resulted into being shoved into handcuffs and ugly polyester outfits- _so_ not glamorous. Not as glamorous as Ibiza and Spanish boys or Shanghai and it's shopping districts. Almost three years in Katadiki can do a number on anyone but Nadia ensures her sanity and her appearance is kept up to date. She speaks herself and writes on the walls, forcing herself to do essays and requesting for intellectual books to make sure her brain is being exercised. And while her nails aren't the perfect fifty dollar manicure she used to have and her hair does not have the shiny, glossy sheen it once possesses, she works out regularly to make sure her physicality and her body haven't been reduced to shambles.

There are moments where Nadia wonders if there's even a point, a point in routines and maintaining her body when she's probably going to be stuck in Katadiki forever. And Nadia almost slaps herself. Of course, it is! Sure, she despises and abhors at the ugly uniforms they made her wear and the lack of nutrients given in the food they asked her to eat but she's definitely not going to die _fat._ There is no humility in doing so.

Nadia catches her reflection in the small mirror near her bed. She observes herself and smiles at the same amount of determination and fire that is still burning in her downturned green eyes three years ago. Even ten years ago, when she was that nine-year-old girl who cleverly listed how she wanted to be a dictator of a poor country somewhere as one of her top career choices. It is amazing how ambitious and power-driven she is because when Nadia Williams wanted something, there is no stopping her. It didn't matter how long it took, how impossible it was and what was in her way. She is Nadia Williams and she'll survive, one way or another.

So she keeps her expression passive, sweet and mild-mannered, carved from marble and rock. She knows what people will see when they look at her- eyes that smoulder a deep jade green, hair that falls so straight and so brown until it hits the sun and then it becomes a burnt auburn colour and pale, smooth alabaster skin. She's reasonably pretty and she knows it. Of course, being adorned in designer head to toe would help her cause a little better but still, it's her best. "I understand," she repeats to Daewon, with a mild-mannered smile. Maybe it should be awkward between her and Daewon, given their history but she refuses to let it get to her. Instead, like any classy bitch would, she ignores everything and plaster on a fabulous smile as if nothing has happened. _Eat it, loser._

"Good," Daewon says- and though his coldness or lack of emotion can be interpreted as unfriendly, Nadia knows he's just extremely shy. Cute. _Not worth your time, Nads_ , she tells herself. _You're much better off spreading your legs for somebody with a private jet. Give yourself some credit._ Besides, she's pretty sure Daewon is gay. Or something like that. She isn't entirely sure. "I don't think there's much to instruct on where you can go."

Nadia refrains from rolling her eyes and instead, idly inspects her nails. They're not in the best shape. _Ugh, I need a manicure._ Nadia pouts. She wonders if New Rome still had that cute little artisan manicure shop. Maybe she can spoil herself a little. _With what money though?_ Nadia feels herself deflate. The fragnos copper shackle around her ankle is a tracking bracelet and also acts as a metal to prevent her magical abilities from coming in. Ew, so tacky.

"Anyway," Daewon awkwardly inspects the ground and clears his throat, "We should- uh- go back to the Senate. The assembly should start soon."

Nadia's eyebrows stitch together. Her interest piques at his words. "Assembly?"

"Yeah, Nico Di Angelo said the Greeks are coming. I guess they're also experiencing some turbulence."

 _Turbulence?_ Nadia wonders deliciously, licking her lips with a smirk quirking at the corners of her delicate cupid-bow lips _. Ooh, maybe Camp Jupiter will be fun after all._

* * *

 _ **FIVE MONTHS AGO**_

Winslow 'Winnie' March is walking into the crowded living room of the frat house, a cup of beer in hand with a crampy feeling in her stomach. It's a good feeling, though: the feeling of knowing anything can happen. Most of the time nothing does, of course. But at the beginning of the night, anything's possible.

She hears the tinkle of breaking glass and someone yells, "Fire in the hole!" Then a boy in her Creative Writing elective and a member of the Alpha Phi Alpha frat house, Dujeous, roars from the speakers: " _All MCs in the house tonight, if your lyrics sound tight then rock the mic!"_ A TV showing Times Square is put on mute and something by Kanye is blasting over the speakers some of the boys had hooked up earlier in the day. By the edge of the living room, there is a dim hallway with multicoloured Christmas lights hung all over the area. There are a series of rooms, each leading off the next, and all seem to be filled with draped fabrics and big pillows and couches and all are packed with people. Everything is soft—the colours, the surfaces, the way people look—except the music, which pumps through the walls, making the floor vibrate. People are smoking inside too, so everything's happening behind a thick blue veil that glosses over Winnie's obsidian dark skin and her thick afro spiral curls of hair.

"Winnie! Oh my god, you came!" Her girlfriend and roommate, Michaela, shrieks as she envelops her. The sheer volume of her voice echo past the murmur of voices but Winnie grins slightly as she welcomes the hug and the kiss Michaela plants softly on her lips. Michaela's mouth is soft and wet and she tastes like whisky and apple-flavoured vape.

"Of course, it's New Years," Winnie takes a sip of her beer and takes in her month-and-two-weeks girlfriend, Michaela Lang. Winnie could never ever imagine landing a girl like Michaela, who is loud and boisterous, outgoing and fun with a penchant for parties and debating fundamental human rights for women while Winnie is quieter and reserved; a coolly amused hipster who mocks people like Michaela on Tumblr. But that was high-school Winnie. She is now College Winnie. College Winnie is a cool, plenty of fun girl who is over eighteen. College Winnie drinks beer on a regular basis and dates girls like Michaela Lang. College Winnie attends frat parties and still manage to maintain her stellar 4.6 GPA.

"What are you drinking?" Michaela glances into her cup. "Oh bitch, _no_! Beer? Honey, you need vodka!"

Winnie laughs and sloshes the beer around in her cup, "Nah, babe, it's fine. I don't really need-"

"None of that," Michaela says disapprovingly and drags her over to the kitchen. The kitchen is even more packed than the living room- full of barely legal college students laughing, mingling and yelling over the obscene rap music. Michaela mumbles to the song loudly, swaying and nodding her head while Winnie tries to play off like she knows the lyrics, smiling and bumping to the beat awkwardly as she narrowly avoids a couple making out on the bar counter.

"Oi, Will," Michaela laughs, calling out a boy wearing a tie and a collared shirt about three sizes too big for him, which is half tucked into a pair of nice trousers. Definitely more sophisticated than half the frat boys around her. "This is my baby, Winnie. Give her something a little stronger to drink, will you?"

Will turn around her and Winnie stifle the urge to gasp- because it's the boy from her nightmares. He has an elegant bone structure with curly brown eyes and those hypnotising green eyes, the type of green eyes that had knowledge and an austerity way beyond his years. "So you're Michaela's new girlfriend?" he questions her, smiling quite innocently while Winnie proceeds to stare at him like an alien.

Recently she's been having this recurring nightmare where she's standing in the middle of an enormous crowd, being pushed from left to right. The faces look unfamiliar and there's something horribly wrong with all of them: someone will walk by and it's Michaela but then her mouth and face will become droopy like it's melting off and transform into a girl with cruel brown eyes and a wicked smile. She doesn't know the girl's name- that girl who Michaela transform into- but Winnie had seen a glint of a necklace on the girl's throat. The necklace says _Lyra._

Obviously standing in the Alpha Phi Alpha's frat house isn't the same thing, since a nightmare is just a nightmare and this is real life. But still, it's enough to make her freak out a little.

"Um, hi," she says awkwardly, holding her hand out, "Yeah, I'm uh-" _Stop being so fucking awkward, oh my God_ "-Michaela's girlfriend."

"Cool. So what drinks you into?"

"Vodka," Michaela grins viciously. She snakes an arm around Winnie's curvy waist, feeling warm and sweet around Winnie's body. "My sweet baby."

Winnie turns around and rolls her eyes, "You are so drunk." It comes out more accusatory than she meant it to.

"Sober enough," she whispers, pulling Winnie close into an embrace and then kissing her. Michaela's breath is cigarettes and whisky when their lips collide. Winnie likes Michaela's mouth- she likes plenty of things about Michaela but her mouth makes it to the top ten.

Michaela expertly traces around Winnie's waist and Winnie sighs in her kisses at Michaela's touch, closing her eyes to indulge in the way Michaela fiddles with Winnie's jacket, then unzips it and plays with the trim of Winnie's wool top before slipping underneath.

Winnie pulls away, blushing red and deep. "Not right here, in the middle of everyone."

Michaela pouts, making her red lips even more kissable. "Nobody's watching, babe," she teases and clamps down on Winnie again, pulling her into another kiss as Will fills her cup with vodka. Winnie braces herself as Michaela explores with the trim of her bra and forces herself to enjoy it because she's _College Winnie_ now. College Winnie enjoys things like sexual foreplay and dangerous girls. Besides, she might as well lose the big V to Michaela, her first girlfriend... _ever._

Winnie knows the tales of how she's supposed to wait to have sex with someone she loves and all that, and she does love Michaela- as much as you can love someone you've known for two months and started dating for a month—but that's not why she decided to have sex with her tonight.

She decided to have sex because she was so uncool in high school, making through those terrible four years without anyone even fiddling with her bra. She wants to get it over with, and also because sex has always scared her and she doesn't want to be scared of it anymore.

Michaela withdraws from their kisses to take a long gulp of her red cup. Winnie glances at her mixture of vodka and coke and shrugs before tossing it back, liking how the sweetness mask the villainy of the alcohol. "Hey, wanna go dance?"

Winnie stares at the dance floor full of grinding college students like it's a massive snake. "Um, I'm not really the dancing type."

"Of course you aren't," Michaela laughs and pecks Winnie on the lips before leaving, "Stay here with Will, okay? I'll be back in a sec."

Michaela disappears into the thick crowds, leaving Winnie at the mercy of starting conversations. A few moments of pulsing noise bombards through the punctuative silence before Winnie tries her best and does it with the common question every college freshmen asks: "So...um, what's your major?"

"Occultism," Will replies pleasantly. He has a strange hybrid accent- it's American but not really. "You?"

"Oh, it's journalism," Winnie tells him and then attempts to make a joke: "Or like my mother said: unemployment."

Will chuckle slightly and Winnie feels a little better about herself. "So...how did you know Michaela?"

Winnie frown, trying to place a timeframe in her memories when she met Michaela. She just knew that Michaela has been her girlfriend for a month or so. Weird. She's certainly sure she met Michaela when she started her semester at Boston University, which was around three months ago. Why couldn't she remember? "I think we met a book club?"

"Oh, that's cute," Will remark kindly. "I met Michaela when we met abroad. London."

"Oh really?" Winnie says, taking another long gulp of her drink. "She never told me she went to London." Did that conversation ever come up?

Will shrugs, "Ly- I mean, Michaela is...different."

Winnie nods and finishes the remaining dregs of her vodka laden mixture. The vodka fills her head with warmth. More people are arriving all the time and the room seems to be revolving just a little bit, spinning and whirling around her. Winnie rubs her head, feeling a pounding headache coming. It must be the alcohol.

"Are you okay?" Will asks her, noticing her expression.

"Oh yeah, just a headache. I think I'm going to go to the bathroom for a while."

She waves goodbye to Will as she makes her way towards the dim hallway. There are so many tiny hallways and rooms, it's like a maze. All of them are filled with people and smoke. Only one door is closed. It has a big KEEP OUT sign plastered on it over a bunch of weird bumper stickers that say things like VISUALIZE WHIRLED PEAS and KISS ME. I'M IRISH.

Winnie's headache becomes even worse as she inches her way to a bathroom, which happens to be empty- Thank God because she's not in the mood to be suddenly scarred by the sight of two college students jumping each other- and immediately hurls herself to the sink. Her heart is ramming itself against her sternum and her vision is fuzzy with black spots appearing in front of her. The clarity of everything is bleaching out like pen ink-stained with water, flickering on and off, and the colours of her consciousness are dimming as if somebody is draining the energy source out of her. Voices from the door behind her sounded- Will and Michaela.

"Where is _she?"_

"Inside the bathroom-"

"Are you sure?"

"Positive, Lyra."

And then she promptly collapses.

* * *

Christopher's first impression of his dream: dark.

Misty tendrils of smoke curl around as his Dream-self step into the area of a cavernous, dark cave. Fog billow and gather together in heavy poofs of groups, obscuring his eyes. Of course, because of the lack of light, he couldn't see much anyway.

Dark shadows lurk and loom around the peripheral surroundings; out of the corner of his eye, a rat scurries away from him. The wickedly sharp stalactite daggers are pointing down, a few metres shy from impaling the ground. Indistinct voices whispers in his ears, the hair at the back of his neck rising as ice needles prickling down his spine but he tries to keep the fear out of his mind. Christopher swallows thickly, clenching and unclenching his fists to prepare himself into a fighting stance even though he knows there's no point. His fighting skills are mediocre at best and subpar at worse and he doesn't have any powers except brilliant pranking abilities. Wherever he may be, Chris's chances of surviving are almost as little as none.

Is it even possible to receive an anxiety attack from a dream?

Chris breathes out and tries to maintain a rational mind. After two years of Camp Half-Blood training, he should know how to handle himself in situations like this. But this is different- he's alone. There's no Sherman Yang screaming at him to leap over the flaming obstacles or sons of Apollo to be on standby just in case any injuries happen. It is just him in his dream form, shimmering like a ghost with dark shifting robes clothing his spindly body. He tugs at the torn hem uncomfortably. If Connor had been here, he'll never let him live down the fact that Chris is technically in a dress.

At the edge of the cave, he could see purple light streaming from the inner corner where a man is bitterly muttering to himself.

His face is bathed with sinister rays as he sweeps his wrinkled fingers over a large shiny rock the size of his fist positioned in the centre of a rock stalagmite with a flat top surface.

 _That is one big diamond,_ Chris thinks. His stomach feels as though he's on a rollercoaster, like once how he and his family decided to go to Disneyland. They had gone to the theme parks and all his brother- Seth- wanted to do was to ride the Incredible Hulk, a roller coaster with so many loops Chris lost count, and he could taste the vomit just by looking at it. He wasn't too keen to go at first but Seth had rolled his eyes and called him a sissy. Angrily opposing his comments, he eventually (and stupidly) agreed.

In this moment, he painfully remembers the plunging, sickening sensation of his stomach disappearing when he hung upside down because he has a faint idea he didn't really to know what might happen to him if the man found out he's there.

"Chris," the man says suddenly, amused to an extent, as the crystal reflect pictures Chris could not decipher but he did not linger on them as the man spoke again, his words are a mix of despondency and light delight: "My dear son. I've summoned you."

Chris looks around, confused at first when he suddenly realised the man is talking to him. The man in front of him is Hermes, which Chris is slightly confused about because Hermes looks and dresses like a white dad steering his kids into Walmart with a slight mid-life crisis pot-belly, salt and pepper hair and a boxy, limp shirt tucked into some khakis that are seriously questionable on their own. Definitely not the God-like person he's expecting.

"Hermes?" Chris's eyebrows stitch together. This is terribly anticlimactic.

"Yes, Chris. It is I, Hermes. And you are Chris Johnson, or Christopher Johnson, the saner disappointment of my children."

 _Wow, jeez. Thanks, Dad._ "Um…"

"You see, Chris, I have such disappointing children," sighs Hermes unhappily. "Poseidon has that wonder-boy Jackson kid of his, Aphrodite has her charmspeakers, Hephaestus's kids can be literally set on fire and what do I have? A bunch of little ragtag bunch whose skill set include juvie and whip cream. The only glimmering child of mine that seemed to be alright was Luke Castellan and we all know how _that_ turned out. But you, you Chris might be different. And now that a new prophecy has finally arrived, this might be your chance to restore glory to my name!"

Chris winces. "That's great and all but um, I'm just a normal guy. No glory, no anything. Heck, I don't even think the prophecy is going to be about me. Probably a new brand of cool heroes we can all worship on a pedestal. But for me? I'm just an ordinary Hermes demigod here."

"But that's what makes you special, my dear Chris. All these demigods with their powers and their fancy abilities blessed by Gods? They're just fancy! You're simple. And you can beat them by pure intellect, wit and trickery. How do you think I manage to placate Apollo after stealing his cattle? In all truth, I should've been blasted to Tartarus if Apollo had a say about it. Anyway, the point is that- the extraordinary thing about you is that you're _ordinary._ "

Chris continues to stare at his father. "I don't think that's how it works."

Hermes chuckles and smiles at his own son's cluelessness. "You don't understand what I'm hinting at, don't you? That prophecy is the new Great Prophecy. And you're in it."

"...and _how_ do you know this?"

Hermes jabs at the crystal ball and taps it with his caduceus, where twin snakes are hissing and coiling together in the middle. "Call it Hecate's intuition."

"Isn't Apollo the one with the future seeing gig?"

"Yes but Apollo isn't the only one with foresight," Hermes lectures. "Hecate is also skilled in divination, let's not forget. You know for a minor goddess, Hecate has plenty of Godly mojo."

"Cool," remarks Chris.

"Isn't it?" Hermes says cheerfully, not reading into the sarcasm- which is rather surprising because his children are some of the world's best tradesmen in sarcasm. "Anyway, I just summoned you here because the Oracle just sprouted some fresh new prophecy and warn you about how you're in it and tell you how if you disappoint me, you'll be a new addition to George and Martha."

 _"What?"_

"See you!"

As he opens his mouth to respond, he's being pulled away from the cavern.

The first thing he sees when his eyes snap open is the face of Abigale Saunders and Juliana Greer.

"Is he okay?" Juliana's voice is tinny in Chris's pounding head.

"What- what happen?"

Abigale's cold eyes examine him. "You passed out in front of my feet. Like _right_ after the Oracle delivered the prophecy."

It takes his eyes a while to adjust to the bright lights and when he could finally see properly, he notices how everybody is surrounding him. "Um….?"

"You should go to the Apollo cabin," Juliana advises warmly, "Let's get you fixed up before we figure out what just happened."

And that's how Chris finds himself on a lumpy bed with sterile white sheets and a rag-thin blue cotton blanket that didn't provide any genuine warmth- a 'shock' blanket as the Apollo campers call it. They feed him a square of ambrosia to cure his headache but decide that's all he needs as he has no other external injuries.

As the other campers clear out of the medical room, Chiron bends down to avoid the low door to trot in.

"Um...Carter, is it?"

 _Wow, even Chiron doesn't know my name._ "No, it's Chris."

"Ah, Chris! Of course. Are you okay?"

No, Chris thinks immediately as he sits up straight and turns his head stiffly to take a look at Chiron.

"I- I think I'm fine." His voice sounds odd to his ears and his mind is still spinning. His memories are half-finished puzzles- he remembers the Oracle's eyes glowing green, looking right at him as it speaks out the prophecy and then his mind went blank as if parts of it are still scattered across the street of 'What just happen?'

Chiron's expression is neutral but his eyes say otherwise- there are concern and worry buried deep in them. Chris wonders how many Great Prophecies and near-Apocalypses the poor centaur have endured. "You collapse right after the Oracle delivered her prophecy. That can't be a coincidence."

"Yeah, it wasn't. I ended up in this random cave talking to my dad."

Chiron frowns. "Your dad?"

"Hermes."

"An Olympian visited you when you blacked out?"

"It seems that way."

"I see."

"He- uh-" Chris swallows, "He thinks I'm part of this prophecy, which is, like, weird right? Because I'm a total random son of Hermes with no special talent whatsoever. _Why_ should I be part of this prophecy?"

Chiron smiles dryly. "Chris, you're a demigod. Just because you don't have a power doesn't mean you're not special. Look at Annabeth Chase? She's just a daughter of Athena. No water-controlling abilities, no flying powers, no charm speak and yet one of the most formidable demigod to be ever known."

"Yeah but she's also a great _fighter._ Me? I'm just a loser who hopes to make it out alive."

"Well, not according to Hermes," Chiron comments pleasantly, like a guidance counsellor trying to give a pep talk. "And I think maybe you are part of this prophecy. You should never deny sage advice from an Olympian."

"Okay, so maybe I am part of this prophecy? Prophecies can have, like, a century-long deadline. The Percy Jackson one took around sixty years to happen."

"Yes but the seven half-bloods prophecy took around eight months," Chiron reminds him. "And with the latest disturbances...I think the prophecy is about to take shape."

Chris raises his eyebrows. "Um, latest disturbances?"

"Yes...well-" Chiron hesitates, looking at Chris briefly.

"You can _trust_ me."

"Of course, well, lately there's been a few minor ruckuses here and there. Just like I mentioned, there's been a break-in at Katadiki Prison. And in the last few months, disturbing videos like _these_ have appeared on the Internet…"

A rose gold iPhone materialises from Chiron's pockets and Chiron pulls out a YouTube browser to show a viral video of a masked figure beheading a church group of missionaries. Chris watches with sickening fascination, his stomach churning once again like it was in his dream. After the masked figure had laughed at his first victim's head lolling off the bloody strands of the neck's muscle tissue holding it together, Chiron finally put it away.

"But _how_ are they related?"

Chiron appears troubled. "Well, apparently, that masked figure is a demigod of some kind. His identity remains somewhat a mystery but just an hour ago, I've received a notification from the son of Hades, Nico Di Angelo, that I'm needed at Camp Jupiter for an emergency conference. He has asked the Praetors- Reyna and Frank- to temporarily extend their hospitality to some of the remaining prisoners who did not escape the clutches of the guards. It seems that Nico Di Angelo has found out the identity of this masked figure from his father and the Olympians. Along with this recent prison breakout, they've now decided to release this information out to the public."

"Okay…" Chris's brain is starting to ache from all this overwhelming information, "I see. So random demigod hacking up mortals for viral videos, a demigod prison breakout and now a prophecy and somehow, according to Hermes, I have something to do with it?"

"It seems so."

"Okay then. Where do we go from here?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're coming with me and Juliana Greer, who have kindly volunteered, to Camp Jupiter. Now go and pack light."

* * *

 **UPDATED CAST LIST! OFFICIALLY CLOSED 3**

MAIN CHARACTERS, OFFICIALLY DECIDED:

Evelyn Clearwater, 16, Greek, Daughter of Morpheus, Female, Incarcerated for: Dangerous, Mental Instability.

Nadia Marie Williams, 19, Roman, Daughter of Fortuna, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Marisol Clarice Hunt, 19, Greek, Daughter of Mania, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

James Silas Moretti, 18, Greek, Son of Aphrodite, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Jaekwan Lee, 19, Roman, Son of Neptune, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Attempted Murder.

Roman Daniel Sokolov, 17, Roman, Son of Victoria, Male, Incarcerated for Drugs and Murder.

SUPERVISORS:

Christopher Michael Johnson, 18, Greek, Male, Son of Hermes.

Santiago Rafael Nieves-Linde, 20, Roman, Son of Sylvanus, Male.

Juliana Greer, 18, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Leilani Shay Kahala, 14, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

SUPPORTING CASTS:

Emmet Grayson Blake, 15, Greek, Son of Hephaestus, Male, Incarcerated for: Attempted Murder.

Adrian Ulysses Dusk, 17 (going on 18), Roman, Son of Apollo, Male, Incarcerated for: The Dusk Plagues, Murder.

Carmen Santanico Alverez, 16, Greek, Son of Dionysus, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason [Gaea's Side]

Kaisu Suzuki Takakuro, 15, Greek, Son of Apate, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ries Edward Duncan, 18, Greek, Son of Ares, Male, Incarcerated for: Abuse of Power

Malina Maruska, 18, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Matthew James Cardinal, 20, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Chelsia Elizabeth Noxley, 17, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Dean Alex Johnson, 17, Greek, Son of Lycan, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ajax Uriel Walker, 21, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Murder.

SUPPORTING CASTS [FOR CAMPS]:

Kathryn Huang, 16, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Samantha Tamaguchi, 17, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Abigale Rebecca Saunders, 16, Greek, Daughter of Khione, Female.

Daewon Kim, 20, Roman, Son of Mars, Male.

Larissa Samnang Ros, 19, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

POSSIBLE ENEMIES:

Inner Circle:

Finnic Theodore Macduff, 19, Greek, Son of Poseidon, Male

Erika Freeman, 17, Greek, Daughter of Tychon, Female.

Jack Landon, 18, Greek, Son of Eris, Male.

Mckenzie Cordell, 19, Roman, Daughter of Mars, Female.

Casvel Samuel Springfield, 27, Greek, Son of Hypnos, Male.

Jason Drake, 18, Greek, Son of Nemesis, Male.

Coven of Hecate:

Will Adler, 19, Greek, Son of Hecate, Male.

Lyra Burke, 17, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Asta Vik, 18, Roman, Daughter of Somnus, Female.

Winslow 'Winnie' March, 18, Roman, Legacy of Trivia, Female.

 **ANYWAY PLEASE REVIEW! TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK 3**


	9. 08

**0.8**

They say that jealousy leaves the soul to burn, acting as a malicious way of the universe tearing you apart, cell by cell, atom by atom. It takes the little things first so that you only feel a nagging sensation, but then it's in chunks and chunks and chunks until there's nothing left.

And it's a sensation that Jaekwan know especially well.

Jaekwan could feel their stares as he walks past the cohorts sitting by in low chairs. Usually, Jaekwan didn't mind the attention. In fact, he actually loves it. If he's in any other position, he would be revelling in it and bathing in it, utilising it to be the incorrigible flirt he naturally is but this is one of the few moments he wishes the other campers didn't notice him too much. He wants them to be too absorbed into their own conversations to even realise he's there but their eyes follow him as he joins his fellow prisoners by the table at the end of the mess hall.

"That's Percy brother," one of them hiss, "A son of Neptune."

"Not Neptune, you nitwit! He's a _Graceus._ It's Poseidon."

"So he's like Percy evil twin or something?"

"Clearly…"

Jaekwan bristles at the mention of his older and definitely more renowned famous brother. It's been years since the war and they're still spreading hot gossip on their lips like it's hot potato. Nonetheless, Jaekwan doesn't give a shit about what they're talking about, hold his head high and walk past- not before he turns to glare at the people conversing about him and imagining how nice they'll look with their heads on a pike. The campers immediately shut up when they feel the heat of his dagger-spiked gaze- for a son of Poseidon, the God of the sea, he could definitely hold a flame of his own.

Despite his initial confidence, Jaekwan does wish he's wearing something a little more fashionable rather than the orange polyester uniform he's currently donning. Jaekwan misses the feeling of wearing normal clothes and breathing in the vanilla softener of his soft, wide-necked sweaters and his comfortable skinny jeans. He misses sporting on a pair of converses instead of clunky prison gumboots. At least with those clothes on, he could blend in with the scenario a little more and not be so obvious in the crowds as his neon orange polyester uniform prevents him from assimilating.

"Hello, losers," he greets cheerfully as he flops down to the chair next to Roman, feeling even more exhausted than the night before he collapses into his bed. Evelyn, bless her kind and slightly unstable soul, had prepared him a cup of coffee.

"Oh my God," he gasps, lapping at the creamy bitter taste, "It's coffee. Do you know how long it's been? Fuck, it's so good."

"Would you like to get a room?" Roman arches his eyebrows at him. "It seems like you might need some privacy with your coffee."

"Hey guys, want to hear a joke?" James brightens up considerably. The son of Aphrodite still looks too cute in his orange uniform but Jaekwan knows that James' playboy nature is something to beware of and Jaekwan doesn't know if he could deal with the reputation of being part of James's very long list of conquests. Jaekwan might be a vengeful murderer and a Traitor of Olympus but he doesn't _hate_ himself. _Please, James wishes he could that this ass,_ Jaekwan thinks.

Marisol rolls her eyes. She's at the edge of the table and tears at the pizza on the plate, putting piece by piece into her mouth- ironically, that's how she killed most of her victims. "What?"

"What do you call a coffee with cum in it?"

"Bitch, I'm eating," Adrian Dusk mutters, looking positively green.

"EJACULATTE!" James delivers the punch line with a proud expression. Everybody stare at him as if he's gone mad. _As if we need any more 'insane' kids stereotype._

Nadia's face is blank, infinitesimally amused. "Do you think that's funny?"

"Of course," James boasts, infectiously grinning. His personality didn't even dull after years of incarceration, which is a nice, cosy notion that settles at the bottom of Jaekwan's stomach. "I'm very, very funny."

"What put you in a good mood?"Jaekwan smirks at him, "Did you already fucked somebody in this camp?"

"Babe, I don't kiss and tell," James acquiesces, mischief painting his tone.

"We've got here, like, _fifteen_ minutes ago."

"Which means he probably had five minutes to do it," Roman is trying his best to hold back his laughter as he cuts open his steak, "And dude, that's kinda sad. Thought you had more stamina than your reputation precedes you."

"Children," sniffs Nadia boisterously, as if this conversation is beneath her. It probably is. "Honestly, can we please have more class than this conversation? And Marisol, darling, there's a reason why a fork is given! At least eat your carbs with some form of dignity. People are already staring at us as if we're a freak show."

Marisol continues to tear her pizza into tiny pieces. "Um, obviously. Besides, didn't you kill some of them at Mount Othyrs during the Titan War?"

Nadia checks her reflection in her butter knife before twiddling it in her hand idly. While Nadia might come off as a bit of a vain bitch, there's no denying how dangerous and duplicitous she can be- Jaekwan's sure of it. He met Nadia before- way back when he was that pathetic son of Poseidon who was always in Percy's shadow, his dear legendary brother. He hates those memories- because they make him clench his fists and leave an acidic metallic taste in his mouth. Poseidon has never appeared to talk to him and while Percy often took leisure trips under the sea to visit his father, Jaekwan had never been spared that luxury. Everybody in Camp Half-Blood adored Percy so he realised nobody would miss him when he left on his own mission to perform his own sense of justice- the murder of his dear ex and his stepfather. In any case, at least Jaekwan was predictable in his story. The unloved and unnoticed son of Poseidon becomes vengeful and murderous and attempts to kill his own father as well? Yes, Jaekwan respects that he's a cliche in its own sense. But Nadia? She is the definition of unpredictable.

You look at her and her shiny dark hair and soft green eyes and vaguely attractive face, you'll never think she's the girl who aligns herself with the Titans and cut down scores of demigods at Othyrs. The idea of composed, proper Nadia Williams as a bloodthirsty, man-killing machine seems so baffling until you actually see her in action. Despite prison, the orange jumpsuit and bags under her eyes, Nadia appears the most put-together. Her hair is combed and the shackles on her arms and legs glisten. She sits with grace and poise and eats with proper etiquette. She seems like a relatively well-rounded person who would never end up in a place like Katadiki.

But appearances can be deceiving.

Before he left Camp Half-Blood, he was even part of her team for Capture the Flag. She seemed trustworthy and acted like a typical do-gooder; she carried and said all the Roman mottos they engraved in her mind to say and she joked and laughed with her fellow campers. He never thought the ambitious, overachieving daughter of Fortuna could ever become a traitor to Camp Jupiter until he caught the news of how she tried to kill her own cohort members on a quest.

"Please, that was _so_ four years ago. They're over it."

"What do you want for lunch?" interrupts a wind spirit, emerging from the kitchen with her hair intact. She seems relatively neutral to the fact that the table is mired with a bunch of prisoners, who are all traitors to the Olympian Gods and murderers. She attentively searches his gaze as she asks for orders. "Pizza? Tacos?"

"No thanks. I'm not hungry," Nadia says.

"More pizza," Roman nods vigorously.

James shakes his head virulently. "No, tacos!"

Jaekwan could hear the bickering from Roman and James in attempted muted tones but forces himself to focus on the approaching figure arriving from the Fifth Cohort, where the moody son of Hephaestus was assigned to stay.

"S'up, Emmett," Jaekwan waves at him and perceiving the foul's expression upon Emmett's face: "Or not."

Stretching, James whispers to Jaekwan, inaudible for everyone to hear but them: "Probably not in the mood for it, Kwannie."

Marisol continues to stab her pizza with a butter knife, attracting even more stares at the commotion as cheese and tomato sauce starts to splatter everywhere. It douses Nadia on her chin, who makes a sound of indignation at the back of her throat.

"What has that poor bread ever done to you?" asks Jaekwan suddenly, "You tore it apart and now you're stabbing it? Are you, like, the most inefficient murderer on this table?"

Roman choke on his Diet coke and James shakes his head. _He's dead_ James mouth at Roman, who remains amusingly silent to watch the exchange."Fuck off, Jaekwan," Marisol growls and levels her butter knife to his eye, "Before I take one off."

Jaekwan holds out his both hand in surrender but continues to smirk, knowing this will further irritate the daughter of Mania. Troublemaking is always part of Jaekwan's speciality. "Okay, ma'am. Got it. Jeez, someone's on her period."

That's when Marisol snap.

"Are you kidding me?" Marisol's Inner Third-Wave feminist appears like a beast finally unleashed from its chains, "How dare you assume that just because I'm mad that I'm on my-"

" _Ahem_." All the while, they have become unaware of a figure standing in front of their table with a pair of fresh brown eyes trained upon them. It's a girl. She's a little bit on the short side but she has dark hair that frames her face quite nicely and half-lidded dark brown eyes. She dresses like how most of the campers dress. There's no official uniform—except for the legendary purple t-shirt—but Jaekwan can notice the same outfit of Seven jeans, gray New Balance sneakers or Doc Martens combat boots, the occasional Jansport fleece if it's cold out (but it's California so it's not too bad) and bits and pieces of armour strapped on nine out of ten campers. Even the guys and the girls dress the same, except the girls' jeans are tighter and they blow their hair out every day. It's funny how Camp Jupiter and Camp Half-Blood swears that they're so different from each other but their campers dress the same way.

That's not to say that the camp did not have their distinctions—it does—but while Camp Half-Blood have their distinctions by godly parent (kids of Demeter are all eco-freaks with their vegan diets, animal-cruelty free clothes and their locally sourced juice and the Ares bunch are all meatheads with their protein powders and their constant need to spar anyone), Camp Jupiter had their distinctions through cohorts. The First Cohort is the best of all- they had the shiniest armours and even designer items because they come from rich Roman families in New Rome and outside in the mortal world. The Second are the next in league- they suck up to the First Cohort and emulate everything the First Cohort do, except with less flash. The third cohort and the fourth kind of blend into each other, like a massive middle class. They wear things actual teenagers wear in regular high schools while the Fifth Cohort obviously stuck out with the rustiest sword or the slightly broken quiver and they walk around with permanently nervous expressions like they're just waiting for somebody to yell, "Boo!"

She seems slightly hesitant as she scans their faces for any signs of prepubescent violence before she steps up to address them. "Hi, I'm Larissa," she fidgets with her fingers- a tool or two that flickers and appears in the sunlight as she speaks quickly, like she's trying to keep up with a freight train: "An emergency assembly will be starting soon and while prisoners are usually not welcomed in these gatherings, Nico Di Angelo had requested your presence to be there most especially so I'm the camper that's supposed to be escorting you to your seats. By the way, we will have some Greeks coming over from the other camp so please don't try to kill anyone. I'd hate to ruin my day by watching you guys get eaten by lions at the Colosseum."

* * *

"I don't even know if those prisoners should be in an assembly with us," Leila mutters, staring at the line of shackled prisoners being escorted by Larissa Ros of the Fourth Cohort to the security docks where Terminus was assessing everybody for weapons by sticking up prodding metal rods into people's armpits. "I mean, like, they're dangerous and violent and highly unpredictable."

Leila turns to Santiago for his input and stares at him expectantly. "They're shackled," Santiago says, feeling a panicky jump in his stomach. He hopes his stutter doesn't appear. "What's the worse they can do?"

"Famous last words," Daewon replies under his breath. His eyes seem to be transfixed at the prisoners, specifically at one of the girls. _Does he like one of them?_ Santiago wonders briefly before their eyes met- the girl's green pale ones and Daewon's soft brown ones clash through the air but then Daewon grits his teeth and turn his head. _Maybe not._ "I can't believe she has the nerve to show her face here."

Leila's gaze follows Daewon's. She stiffens and bites the corner of her lips, hands flying to her neck. There's a thin, red scar in the patch of skin on the delicate curve of her neck. "Don't take it so personally," she laughs but the strained expression on her face indicates otherwise. "I'm over it. It was years ago."

"Still," Daewon mumbles, "She was your best friend and she tried to behead you in your sleep when we went on a quest together."

"So? She also killed a lot of our friends and our cohort members." Leila's face appears serene. As a daughter of Ceres, Leila's temper is like her mother. It hardly ever happens unless it is necessary. That's one of the things Santiago appreciates about Leila. And maybe because Leila stood for him when he came to Camp Jupiter, helping him obtain his _probatio_ and the fact that they are sons and daughters of nature Gods and they are the only few vegans in the camp. "There's no use dwelling in the past. Anyway, this line is taking forever. We should get some coffee. Coming, Ralph?" Leila is using his 'English' name. _Americans,_ Santiago muses to himself.

Santiago shakes his head.

"You mind holding our spots for us?" Daewon asks politely.

He nods.

When they left him for _La Coffea-_ arguably one of the best hot chocolates in the world, Santiago lets out a deep breath of relief and inches his way down the line.

He just needs to settle his nerves. To take the anxiety he feels like black static behind his eyes and an extra heart in his throat, and shove it all back down to his stomach where it belonged—where he could at least tie it into a nice knot and work around it.

He looks on forward, where the line is way too slowly due to Terminus being extra-OCD and arguing with a son of Mercury about whether his nerf gun classifies as a deadly weapon. Usually, in Senate meetings and assemblies like this, Santiago tries his best to avoid them by skipping out into the Californian redwood forests but he knows that since it's an 'emergency' assembly he can't miss out. Kind vegan or not, Leila would've sewn him into a sack of weasels and throw him into the River Tiber.

So he forces himself to go, despite how much the thought of being packed into a crowded room full of armed demigods with Imperial Gold swords and cleats makes him want to run away. His eyes skirt at the people around him- the boy in front of him is wearing earbuds and self-consciously bobbing his head. The girl behind him keeps flipping her hair from one shoulder to the other as she chats animatedly with her Venus siblings. Santiago could feel their hearts beating and their legs tapping. He could smell their deodorant. Just knowing they are there made him feel tight and cornered.

When Daewon and Leila return, they come back with two iced hot chocolates, one ice coffee and a bag full of vegan caramel croissants (courtesy of Leila). Santiago thank the Gods that Daewon and Leila take the hot day into account. California during the summer is an absolute horror as the humidity of a new day had already caused the sweat to pool at his neck. He fans himself as strands from his side fringe clung needily on his damp forehead.

"We got you one," Leila says, her smile reaching her eyes. Her long hair is now looped into a messy bun.

"Oh thank you," Santiago blushes at the gesture and graciously accepts the hot chocolate. They sip on their drinks and nibble on their food as Terminus asks them to turn out their pockets and place their weapons in the mounting pile by the corner of the Senate's entrance.

"What do you think it's going to be about?" Daewon ask.

It takes a second for Santiago to realise he's talking to him. "I don't know," he admits shyly, feeling slightly awkward that Daewon's engaging conversation within. It's not that they have never spoken- it's more like they hardly ever. Santiago doesn't really know what to make of him. Six months in the same cohort is not enough to make a decision. "Maybe something to do with the prisoners."

"But then why are the Greeks here?" Leila point over to the edge of New Rome, where Temple Hill is located. The praetor, Frank Zhang, is leading two demigods and a centaur down towards the Senate House. Frank appears regal, decked out in official Praetor uniform. His toga signals the formality of the event and the purple cloak flying behind him dance in the wind as if it's some sort of cape. The eagle necklace on his neck glints in the sunlight as he shakes hands with the two demigods and hugs the centaur.

"I don't know," Santiago admits before they filter into the Senate House.

* * *

Marisol stares in awe of the Senate House.

She's never really been to Camp Jupiter so it's her first time seeing everything. She gapes, her mouth falling open as she secretly wishes she had eight eyes to drink in every sight.

The Senate House in itself is a structure to behold- the elliptical stadium is monumentally palatial as it is a five story tall Roman-style Colosseum, just like the famous amphitheatre in Italy. The only difference is instead of being made out of concrete and stone, it's a contemporary steel structure with glass windows and doors between the arches.

Outside the Colosseum is a field of campers, ghosts, fauns and Camp Jupiter veterans alike, bustling with activity. There is hardcore bargaining by the market stalls, shouting and fights exploding over some of the item ("Only two denarii for this beautiful shield! Only two!" "Get your demigod-efficient iPhone here! Charmed to function like a normal iPhone, except no monsters!") as they shuffle into the stadium to fill up the seats.

The sunlight penetrates down from the skylight, washing the arena in this brilliant glow as if it's been shoved inside a washing machine under bleach detergent and the option of super strong, coming back out looking cleaner and brighter than ever. Shackled hand over her face, Marisol obscure her eyes to protect the sun from grilling the holy hell out of her. The arena has been modelled after an Ancient Roman senate but with a contemporary, futuristic twist. It's organised into a semi-circle with tiered seats facing an elevated platform and a dais podium where the Praetors will address the audience. The front layer is brimming with all the important members- ten of the senators and ten centurions from each cohort.

Feathers scatter in the atmosphere as eagles- Camp Jupiter's emblem- zoom across the stadium above their heads. Almost every aspect had Marisol breathless: the influx of different creatures mingling, colours of different goat tails, floating ghosts, armed battalions, purple cloaks- the sight of it all is so impressive and so surreal after being enclosed in a prison cell for years that Marisol almost stand and gawk for a good five minutes. There's even a centaur! He's a white stallion from the waist-down but the waist-up, Marisol is reminded of a middle-aged history teacher with thick bushy eyebrows and thinning brown hair- almot like an overworked investment banker. Despite this, the centaur seems to be a highly regarded creature with many of the campers milling their way towards him to shake his hand.

She wonders if that's the same case about Camp Half-Blood and if it's just as visually stunning. Maybe more. She's never been to Camp Half-Blood.

Marisol wonders what would've happened if she didn't join the Hunters- if she was found by a regular satyr or whatever and was taken to Camp Half-Blood. Would she have been different? Would her life be better or worse? Would she had ever ended up at Katadiki? Would Elizabeth still be alive?

The memory of the panic and the slick feeling of blood coating her fingers after accidentally killing one of her fellow Hunters buoy up into the surface of her mind before she abruptly pushes it out of her mind.

"Move," Larissa jabs her in the shoulder with the butt of her scimitar; Larissa, at first appearance, harmless and kind of dodgy but when push comes to shove, Larissa is stormy and stern. "You're holding up a line."

"I can walk, thanks," Marisol spits out fiercely.

They head over and sit on the right side of the semicircle. A massive group of kids, roughly around the number of thirty to forty, range from various ages march concisely in a single file line and occupy the seats right next to them. Their backs are ramrod straight, their posture never slack, their faces palpable with no emotions.

"The First Cohort," Larissa's muscles tighten. "Ugh."

Marisol has never seen a bunch of kids so well-behaved and disciplined before. Talk about a nightmare.

Footsteps thunder on stage. It's a boy striding towards the podium. His extravagant black toga billow behind him. Silence fall between the crowd- not utter silence, with some whispers managing to surreptitiously sneak in. It took her a few moments for her to suddenly realise the boy is actually Nico Di Angelo, the son of Hades, the Ambassador of Pluto and her warden.

He taps on the microphone and looks rather awkward as he registers the crowd uncertainly, "Um hello," he coughs out. The black toga looks as if it's going to consume him in its silken material. "I mean- uh, hi. So as you notice, I have declared an emergency meeting regarding the recent arrival of prisoners in Katadiki."

Murmurs break out and soon, Marisol is aware of all the eyes on her. Marisol forces herself to look ahead, ignoring the daggers and glares shot her way. Marisol is glad that the fragnos shackles are being placed around her ankles and her wrists to prevent her powers from destabilising her. The metal prevents her powers from acting up, which means she's in more control of her abilities and her emotions and therefore allows her to seem aloof and unaffected by their judgement. She rolls her eyes. It's cliche- of course. She had expected this kind of treatment. You slap a label that says 'convict' or 'prisoner' on somebody and people immediately judge you without even having a conversation with them.

"As of recently, we've been having a series of attacks by a certain group called the Celestials. This group has been responsible for the Houston church beheading and the terrorist attacks in Paris and Belgium. They've also been behind the hackings of several governmental agencies across the world and the funding of ISIS. It wasn't a matter of major concern before as this group of demigods had only performed attacks on mortals. That changed last night. Yesterday's destruction of Katadiki penitentiary had led to its immediate closure, which is why the prisoners are being sent here to Camp Jupiter temporarily until Katadiki is seen fit to host these prisoners again. However, the release of these prisoners and Katadiki's reconstruction is the least of our problems. This brand new demigod group were regarded as a nuisance before but this recent attack had led us to take them more seriously. My father had been gaining intel on them since last year and-"

He falls unexpectedly silent. Marisol frowns, wondering why until she heard the clattering blades that signal the approach of a helicopter. The sound grows louder and louder until the crystal chandelier begins to buzz and vibrate.

"Everybody, out!" Reyna yell, brandishing her sparkling Imperial Gold spear. The daughter of Bellona, even at age twenty-two, is fearsome and powerful as the power of her mother sizzle around her. "Go down to Senate's basement! NOW!"

"Shit," Larissa swears. Marisol and the others look at her for instructions. "Okay, you guys have to follow me."

But as people rush to the exit, everybody notices the sight of a small parachute drifting lazily down past the steel panelled window of the Senate's skylight. As it settles its payload in a hedge of emerald cedars, the helicopter noise becomes fainter and finally disappears.

The whole Senate is stunned. There is a deafening silence. Nobody moves a muscle. When the campers finally found their voices, the frightened questions bombard in a cascade:

"How did they get through our borders?"

"Was that a helicopter?"

"Holy _podex_ , is it a bomb?"

"Everybody settle down," Nico order, his voice amplified over the din through the microphone. "If they wanted to kill us, they would've snuck it into the Senate."

"I'm going to get it," Reyna says briskly. She fled outside with the other praetor close behind her. The campers watch in quiet awe and fascination as Reyna's new Pegasus, Marmalade (obviously in conjunction with Reyna's old Pegasus, Scipio or better known as Skippy), help her fly her up to the skyline when she carefully extracts the package from the roof. Within five minutes, she comes back in with the package in hand. Everybody clamber and lean in forward to get a better look. Marisol narrow her eyes.

The package is about the size of half a shoe box, a canvas bag wrapped in waterproof plastic. Reyna detaches it from the chute by cutting the strings with her the tip of her spear. Then she removes the plastic cover and unfurls the canvas. Out tumbles a wad of bubble wrap. Nico caught it before it hit the ground and begin to remove the tape and unwind the plastic.

"A phone?" Frank query, his voice loud enough to carry through the Senate without a microphone. The campers begin to murmur disappointingly at each other at the lack of suspense as the disappointing revelation of such a mundane item.

Reyna frown. "It doesn't look like any phone I've ever seen." She registers the audience: "Can we have a child of Vulcan up here, please?"

A girl- no younger than fifteen- rises from her seat and promptly ignore the stares following her as she stepped up to the podium to examine the phone. She's brown-haired with child-like grey eyes. Reyna hands her the phone, where the girl takes out the battery out of its cartridge and fiddle with a few of the phone's equipment. "Larissa, I need your help."

Larissa stands from her seat, shyly aware of the attention of her. She quickly makes her way to the podium, where Leilani is scratching her head as she fidgets with the phone. Larissa is mumbling under her breath as she produces an Imperial Gold knife to slice it open and examine the insides more carefully. After a few minutes, Larissa announces: "There's no brand name or model number." Everybody is still relatively confused until Larissa sighs and explains: "Nothing that can be traced. But it's fine. I'll take this in, open it up even further and maybe I can figure out something from the way it's wired. And the chip might be stamped with an identifier —"

"No." The centaur interrupts her unexpectedly, but not unkindly from the far end of the Senate. While the centaur, in general, appear taller and a much more formidable figure than the rest of the campers, the sudden diverted attention place upon the centaur seem to elevate him further. "If somebody takes the trouble to parachute a cell phone down on our front lawn, it's because they're going to call."

"He's right," Nico agrees tersely. Nico presses the power switch and the device light up, booting itself to life. There's a chime, and a text message appears on the small screen.

 _ **Greetings, demigods of Camp Jupiter!**_

 _I'd hoped to meet you in person, but perhaps it's better this way._

 _As you've noticed, the remaining prisoners who had failed to escape from your clutches after I had granted them the brilliant opportunity to do so sits before your very eyes. For that, I presume these are failings._

 _I am Isaiah Wallace. Who I am is nothing of your concern but what I am is a question that's simply burning in all your mortal loins. I am the leader of the Celestials and I'm aware that after my little neat trick at Katadiki Prison, I will be the number one on your Hit List._

 _You want me?_

 _Very well._

 _Why don't we play a game? A nice little game of hide-and-seek. If you manage to find this particular artefact before my team, I'm all yours. But if I manage to find it first, well…let's not think about it._

 _Now let's even out the playing field. After all, you don't even know what you're supposed to find. Let me give you a riddle:_

 _"shrouded in crimes too many,_

 _find_ order _of the n_"_

 _What is that? Well, it's all I can give you for now. And if you're thinking, how will I keep my word if you did find this artefact before my team? Will I just surrender or will I double-cross you? Who knows?_

 _In that case, I suppose you'll just have to trust me._

 _Won't you?_

 _The Celestials._

* * *

 **AND THERE IT IS! Now there's definitely less character and more plot, but hey! I'm just getting things started- the plot- or the quest will definitely be centered around this fun little hide-and-seek game between Isaiah's team and the AntiHeroes. You see, Isaiah is looking for a priceless artefact. And the demigods are looking for Isaiah. So the challenge is to find it before Isaiah and hope it doesn't fall into Isaiah's hands. If it does, Isaiah obviously wins. If it doesn't, I suppose Isaiah hands himself in. Or is Isaiah the type to double-cross?**

 **Hehe, only time will tell!**

 **BELOW IS THE FULLY UPDATED CAST LIST!**

MAIN CHARACTERS, OFFICIALLY DECIDED:

Evelyn Clearwater, 16, Greek, Daughter of Morpheus, Female, Incarcerated for: Dangerous, Mental Instability.

Nadia Marie Williams, 19, Roman, Daughter of Fortuna, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Marisol Clarice Hunt, 19, Greek, Daughter of Mania, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

James Silas Moretti, 18, Greek, Son of Aphrodite, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Jaekwan Lee, 19, Roman, Son of Neptune, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Attempted Murder.

Roman Daniel Sokolov, 17, Roman, Son of Victoria, Male, Incarcerated for Drugs and Murder.

SUPERVISORS:

Christopher Michael Johnson, 18, Greek, Male, Son of Hermes.

Santiago Rafael Nieves-Linde, 20, Roman, Son of Sylvanus, Male.

Juliana Greer, 18, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Larissa Samnang Ros, 19, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

SUPPORTING CASTS:

Emmet Grayson Blake, 15, Greek, Son of Hephaestus, Male, Incarcerated for: Attempted Murder.

Adrian Ulysses Dusk, 17 (going on 18), Roman, Son of Apollo, Male, Incarcerated for: The Dusk Plagues, Murder.

Carmen Santanico Alverez, 16, Greek, Son of Dionysus, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason [Gaea's Side]

Kaisu Suzuki Takakuro, 15, Greek, Son of Apate, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ries Edward Duncan, 18, Greek, Son of Ares, Male, Incarcerated for: Abuse of Power

Malina Maruska, 18, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Matthew James Cardinal, 20, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Chelsia Elizabeth Noxley, 17, Greek, Daughter of Aphrodite, Female, Incarcerated for: Murder.

Dean Alex Johnson, 17, Greek, Son of Lycan, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason.

Ajax Uriel Walker, 21, Greek, Son of Thantos, Male, Incarcerated for: Treason and Murder.

SUPPORTING CASTS [FOR CAMPS]:

Kathryn Huang, 16, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Leilani Shay Kahala, 14, Roman, Daughter of Vulcan, Female.

Samantha Tamaguchi, 17, Greek, Daughter of Ares, Female.

Abigale Rebecca Saunders, 16, Greek, Daughter of Khione, Female.

Daewon Kim, 20, Roman, Son of Mars, Male.

POSSIBLE ENEMIES:

Inner Circle:

Finnic Theodore Macduff, 19, Greek, Son of Poseidon, Male

Erika Freeman, 17, Greek, Daughter of Tychon, Female.

Jack Landon, 18, Greek, Son of Eris, Male.

Mckenzie Cordell, 19, Roman, Daughter of Mars, Female.

Casvel Samuel Springfield, 27, Greek, Son of Hypnos, Male.

Jason Drake, 18, Greek, Son of Nemesis, Male.

Coven of Hecate:

Will Adler, 19, Greek, Son of Hecate, Male.

Lyra Burke, 17, Greek, Daughter of Hecate, Female.

Asta Vik, 18, Roman, Daughter of Somnus, Female.

Winslow 'Winnie' March, 18, Roman, Legacy of Trivia, Female.


	10. 09

0.9

Juliana's pulse is racing along with her mind as she followed Chiron, Reyna, Frank, Nico, Chris and Larissa into the _Principia,_ which also doubles as the praetor's office.

As people delve out of the Senate, talking and discussing what have happened amongst themselves, Reyna had requested the aforementioned people to congregate in the Principia before Reyna had dismissed the assembly and gesture the others to keep up with her and enter the abundantly supplied hallways of the Principia.

The hallways feature paintings from different eras, listing the various demigods that had been given the position of Praetor. Some of them are Impressionists works but the majority consisted portraits of old men in frockcoats and woman posing lavishly in exquisite dresses and large diamonds. The recent ones are photographs of Reyna and Frank encased in an ornate, Imperial Gold frame. There are also priceless, pretentious cabinets of Rome's priceless, historical artefacts such as scrolls and jewelled necklaces presented grandly on tiny golden pedestals and velvet boxes. The Twelfth Legion Eagle is also sitting amongst these treasures under the guard of alarm-sensitive glass doors that the children of Vulcan had designed to keep out robbers. The lush Persian rugs that blanket the marble floors are so soft Juliana feel as though with every step, she's about to sink. The diamond chandelier reflect dim lights into the passageways, gracing it in delicate auras.

Reyna's braided hair swishes behind her like a cow's tail as she marches them into her office, her cloak as equally pliant as she welcomes them in. Reyna unsheath her purple cloak and hang it onto the elegant stainless steel coat rack that waited for her besides the doorway, then occupies herself into the office chair on the desk by the left.

"Larissa, try and text back," Frank offer, "Maybe we can try and get into contact with this...Isaiah person."

Larissa nods abruptly. Her fingers work like pistons on the phone's tiny keyboard: _Must meet to discuss terms._ She press SEND, and the phone responds: _Recipient unknown._

She tries again. _Recipient unknown._

"Neat trick," Nico remark. "He can reach us, but we can't reach him."

"Of course," Reyna rub the side of her temples and her eyes float towards Chiron. "I'm so sorry for this. I didn't really mean for this to happen."

Chiron smiles kindly at the daughter of Bellona. "Reyna, relax. It's fine. Besides, we also had an event at Camp Half-Blood."

Nico, Reyna and Frank straighten up almost immediately. "Wait, what?" Frank asks sharply. "What do you mean?"

"There's been a prophecy," Juliana says, out of nowhere. Suddenly, the attention is on her. "Rachel- um, our Oracle- delivered a prophecy for the first time in four years."

Animosity strike a chord in the air and a heavy silence so thick, you have to tear it to chunks with a saw, fall upon everybody.

"Shit," Nico swears violently, "Motherfucking _shit._ I hope for fuck's sake, we could avoid another prophecy in this lifetime."

"Nico!" Reyna lecture, like a scolding mother, "Language!"

Nico rolls his eyes.

Juliana refuse the urge to smile- these are some of the greatest heroes of Olympus right in front of her and yet they're arguing like little babies. It's almost humanising to see them in that sense.

Chiron coughs uncomfortably, "Nonetheless," he steers the conversation back to the topic at hand, "Whether we would like another Great Prophecy in such a short span, we have no choice. It's clear that this prophecy is referring to your current predicament...this Isaiah boy. I have no idea who he is."

Nico's face darkens. "I do. My father- Hades- told me about him. It's supposed to remain a secret...he didn't even tell Hazel yet but Isaiah...well, he's a special case."

"How so?" Juliana arches her eyebrows.

"Isaiah was Sired by Kronos. Or rather Kronos in Luke Castellan's body."

For the first time in her life, Juliana Greer could feel her logic failing her. She's not the only one- Chiron and Chris are both ashen-faced while Reyna and Frank are the only few who are relatively confused, patiently waiting for an explanation of _who_ Luke Castellan is.

"But Luke...died only, like, five years ago," Juliana says, her mind confused. "Are we dealing with a five-year-old kid?"

Nico shakes his head, "No, Kronos...well, he wanted an insurance policy of some sort. So from the timeline my father constructed, he reckoned that Kronos must have gone back in time and sired a child all the way back in 1999. Which fits accurately to our timeline, of course."

"That...make sense," Reyna's brown eyes glittered like dark pools. "So he's a son of a Titan."

 _Son of A Titan_ sounds like some sort of godly insult. Juliana covers her mouth to stifle her laugh and fight to keep a straight face. _Stay serious, Juliana._

"Yes, Isaiah is the son of Kronos and it's believed that his control over time is also impeccable. Nonetheless, from my sources, we've gathered that Isaiah Wallace had a bit of an unstable...background."

"Unstable?" The boy Chris, who everybody whirl around to see where he is, questions. Chris is leaning on the wall, lazily slumped like a true child of Hermes he is. "How so?"

"Well, he murdered his mother kind of unstable."

"Ah," Frank say faintly, "That kind of unstable."

"Regardless of who this Isaiah is," Reyna say, "One thing is certain- a quest is in order. And we need to figure out that stupid riddle-"

"Ten words," Juliana mutter, "The riddle has ten words."

Everybody stare at her, not because she interrupted Reyna- the legendary praetor of Camp Jupiter but because of her sudden input. She fumbles at the weight of six pair of eyes on her. _Say something, you idiot._ "The riddle," she says confidently, fiercely like the headstrong daughter of Ares she is despite the fact her insides squirm at the thought of speaking so strongly in front of such powerful demigods,"Have ten words. It could mean something. Like uh, ten demigods on this quest or ten days to complete this quest or…"

She trails off.

"No, no, continue on," Reyna encourages her, smiling slightly.

"Well, the riddle sums up ten words- or assumingly, ten words as the last word was unfinished."

"Someone write down the riddle," Frank instructs.

"I will," Larissa hurriedly produce a pad of paper from her many, many pockets, reminding Juliana of a certain son of Hephaestus and his fondness for pockets. Larissa scribble down the riddle.

"The first line is already kind of weird enough. I'm no daughter of Athena but…'crimes too many?' could mean a lot of things, it could be talking about an organisation- or even a person. But probably an organisation because the next line kind of alludes to that. It says 'order of'. So we can assume this is an order that has done plenty of crimes. That is what the riddle is about. It's talking about an order, or an organisation who had performed many crimes. I mean, it could be completely off but…"

"No, no, any lead is good," Reyna assures her, "It's still better than nothing. So an organisation for crime?"

Nico's eyebrows stitch together, "What, like, a mafia?"

"Or the Chinese Triad," add Frank helpfully. "Or the Japanese Yakuza."

"We get it," Reyna point out sharply. "So an organisation of crime...but they're all mortal organisations. What do they have _anything_ to do with us?"

"Maybe…" Chiron wonders thoughtfully, "Maybe...there's a demigod version of this. A demigod organisation for crime. Not that I have ever heard of it."

"Neither have I," Frank said.

Larissa jerks her head into a vigorous shake.

"You know how you guys have those prisoners from Katadiki?" Chris offers, unwittingly genius. "I bet those guys know about demigod crime organisations more than anyone else in this Camp."

Nico's eyes widen. "Of _course._ He planned this. He orchestrated a prison breakout, knowing that whoever remain will be brought to Camp Jupiter since it's the closest demigod stronghold to the Underworld. And then he dropped this-" Nico gesture to the phone on Larissa's lap, "-on Camp Jupiter. He has planned every move and every possible counter move we might make."

"This guy is either a strategic genius or he can see the future," Reyna's mouth is a grim line, like a deep gash created by a knife. "But that doesn't matter. We have some prisoners to grill."

Juliana hope she meant that metaphorically.

* * *

 **FIVE AND A HALF MONTHS AGO**

The windows are shut. The atmosphere was thin, fragile, as if Isaiah is to touch it might disintegrate. An ancient codex has been flipped open, the undecipherable words and multicoloured drawings shown to the world. A blank canvas and a map is next to the codex. Five candles are seen to placed on a stone altar; four in cardinal points and one in the middle; their flames bright and eerie, contrasting the consuming darkness.

Lyra is perched on her knees, head bowed down like she's praying. Maybe she breaking out of her inertia, she removes the massive black lace veil from her face and drapes it onto the altar, disregarding the candles and the flammability of the structure.

It catches on fire.

"Whoa!" Fernando Ramirez shouts, his hammer materialises ready to strike. Isaiah's warning gaze fall on him and Isaiah shakes his head. Fernando hesitantly stows it away but his hand remain on the handle.

"Relax, stupid," Lyra laughs, "Just magic."

Her hand delve into the other pockets of her designer Gucci tote bag and retrieve a corked see-through phial of thick, slimy black liquid. She extracts the cork from the phial and pours the liquid onto the floor- but it never lands, as the liquid stop half-way down and collected in the air, solidifying into a black carbon cauldron.

"Neat trick," Casvel Springfield remark as It lands on the floor of flames with a definitive _thud._

"Please, basic witchcraft," Lyra says, as she picks up the Codex and begins to read as she explains: "These are just ritualistic matters. Every child of Hecate can perform a potion that helps create a cauldron."

"What are you doing?" Isaiah interrupts her process quite frankly, lips pursed and eyes narrowed. "You drag us out here just to set some things on fire? Really, Lyra?" _Did I make the wrong calculations? Seen a wrong future?_

"You told me I have three months to get you details," Lyra snaps, her dark brown eyes flickering along with the coils of flames that lick the veils- surprisingly, it didn't sputter out or die away. It's stronger than ever, blazing and eating up the lace "Here it is. Might as well watch the process, won't you? Now shut up."

Isaiah refuses the urge to roll his eyes- he knows the real reasons why Lyra drag everyone out to watch this ritual: to assert her dominance and to show off her powers to everybody. But of course, Isaiah doesn't care how much Lyra's ego needs stroking as long as she produces the results. Though ego can be dangerous- and much worse, annoying.

Everybody is deadly quiet as she seems to memorise the contents of the unreadable text in the codex, close her eyes and begin to chant under her breath. Then her eyes flew open, glowing a dark purple. She seems pre-possessed by some form of demon or spirit as she reaches into her holster and produces a small pocketknife. She slices a thin scar down her wrist, near the vein, biting her lip as the pain pierces into her, and squeeze her blood into the cauldron.

The people back away- Erica is beside him, swallowing, as Lyra's dilated purple pupils retreat into their normal size and colour of ordinary honey brown. She rummages through her tote again and unsheath a wooden box, carved with ornate flower designs. She mutters a spell to unlock it, with a distinctive _click_ and reveals a collection of herbs,

"Myrrh," she drops a few pebbles of brown stuff, "Sulfur," a few spoonful of yellow powder that fills the room with a rotten egg stench, "Heliotrope," and a beautiful, decaying purple flower falls into the potion, "And anisette." She clicks her fingers at Finnic, who happens to be clutching a bottle of Anise-flavoured liquor, and pours the whole bottle into the cauldron. It begins to broil and bubble, sending a stronger, foul odour. Like rotten cabbage. Isaiah crinkles his nose but observes on intently. He wonders if he has chosen the right witch.

"Spoon," Lyra gasps at Finnic, who had helped Lyra carry her supplies from the makeshift office Isaiah had offered for her to work in. A spoon is thrust into her grasp. She whisks the potion faster and faster as if to keep up with the pace of the liquid boiling, " _Ostende mihi, Illum quem quaero."_

Lyra ultimately collapses. She would've hurt herself from the impact of her body smashing onto the concrete floor if it isn't for Isaiah's fast reflexes. He manages to catch her- or perhaps more specifically, she ungraciously topples into his arms, with her head lolling about and her arms and legs dangling in the air. She's not too heavy and she smells of herbs, singe with smoke rising from it. Her forehead is damp, her skin waxy with strained exhaustion and the lines of his face are stretched.

"Take her to the infirmary," Isaiah instructs Finnic and Jason by unceremoniously dumping her into their arms.

Mckenzie Cordell, one of his few trusted recruits, points at the blank canvas and retrieves it from the floor, her eyebrows furrowed, before showing it to him. "Look!"

Isaiah's breath is stolen away when he sees it. In glistening red ink, most likely blood, names and numbers are appearing on the canvas. The map besides the canvas spontaneously combusts. Bright red-orange fire coil around it and spread through the entire map, engulfing the paper in embers. Soon, it sputters and then die- like it eventually does. Except for one difference- out of his very own gaze, there's now newly acquired blood on the map that begin to separate itself and snake- yes, the word _snake_ was quite appropriate- towards different parts of the world, heeding at various sports and marking Xs.

"She's drawn us a map," Isaiah shakes his head, almost speechless. His eyes read hungrily over the names; a list of Undetermined and undiscovered recruits along with where they are and where their coordinates are. His eyes scour through them- _Asta Vik, Somnus, Underworld, William Adler, Hecate, London, Samantha Tamaguchi, Ares, Camp Half-Blood-_ and the list goes on. "A map and a list of names of every being of godly relation in the world and where they are."

* * *

Isaiah sits on the edge of her bed, examining Lyra's slumbering, supine figure as she lies helpless on a bed in a short row of many others similar to hers. There are no windows in the room so it's completely lit with candles and show globes. A jug of nectar sits on the beside table. Isaiah grimaces at the reminder of his dwindling nectar and ambrosia supply. He needs to plan for another raid on the wholesaler's warehouse if he didn't want his healing supplies to diminish.

Looking at Lyra unconscious, so peaceful and quiet, wrapped in white linen, no makeup, almost harmless when he's used to seeing the Los Angeles socialite rocking up in a short glitzy party dress, tall heels and some designer bag. He could picture her so clearly, overdressed in an opulent piece that's meant to catch his eye and entice him, peering over him with her charcoal coated eyelash extensions, an impregnable, indifferent expression of her lips reducing into a thin, white line before it finishes with a slow smile and her dark brown steel eyes soulless and devoid so you wouldn't be able to decode what she's thinking behind her cool, detached exterior- an art she has probably mastered over the years.

It's also an art Isaiah prides himself on; an art where he learns how to twist the arches of his face not to react to emotions he feels inside his skin. It takes time but when you're the Master of Time, it's like you have the whole world at your feet, begging for you to take it.

Then suddenly, she stirs. Her eyes feel as if it weighs a hundred pounds as she tries to pluck her eyes apart from each other. Her lashes flutter before her as light mire him. "Argh," is her first syllable in her parched throat. It feels as though a scorpion had built a nest inside of it. She clear her throat of phlegm.

When her view of Isaiah idly waiting for her on the edge of her bed sharpens, Isaiah holds wooden pitcher up to her lips and tilt the nectar into her throat. She drinks ravenously, licking the wet sides of the cup after the nectar has disappeared down her gullet and the pale valour and exhaustion wreaked all over her body disappears.

"Ugh, potions," Lyra wrinkles her nose as she sets the pitcher back to its original placement. "Tedious work."

"Well done," Isaiah congratulates, fiddling with the zippers of his oversized utility jacket and retrieving the scroll of canvas paper with the names of demigods written all over it.

"Happy now? It's a locator spell," Lyra explains, tugging at the white hem of her infirmary dress. "And it's a big spell. Location spells are usually quite easy but this one is on an international, mass scale to locate every demigod in this world. Makes recruitment almost ten times easier?"

Isaiah nods briskly. Isaiah's curtness is usually inflected with his familiar military grittiness and business-like manner; Isaiah is a perfection and so he expects nothing short of expectations, even himself. "You saved us time. And paperwork. So for that…"

"I'm waiting."

A sharp inhale. A tongue briefly wets his lips before he responds: "What would you like?"

Lyra lean in closer, with a catlike grace from the arch of her back. Even without the facade of smokey makeup and exposing clothes, she manage the predatory glint in her eyes that parallels with her thinly disguised amused grin. Isaiah force his eyes not to trail down her chest, where the gap of her shirt has opened up and reveal the white outline of a lacy bra. _She does that on purpose, Isaiah. Focus._ "Isaiah Wallace, bending to my will? Ooh, interesting."

He rolls his eyes, "It's not that hard to believe," he says, "I gave you all the spellbooks you requested in order for you to prove your worth. You've done that. Now what?"

"I want all the names of people with Hecate's relations."

"Why?"

"You told me your vision three months ago," Lyra replies blithely, "And yet, you're still stumbling in the dark, looking for a way to topple the mortals out of their fat asses. Sure, you've done a few massacres here and there but really, to the mortals you just look like a bunch of silly terrorists that's really just another ISIS."

Isaiah sets his jaw. "So?"

"So it's aimless," Lyra retorts; a collection of serrated remarks and deceptively sweet saccharine smiles. "You hijack a few planes and kill a few people isn't going to get you anywhere. Isaiah, babe, you're stunning in a psychopath kind of way but you have no _direction._ Lucky for you, that's where I come in."

"Don't call me babe."

"I'll call you whatever I want, sweetcheeks. Just hear me out, you want demigods to stop hiding? You want mortals to bow at your feet? You want to prove that we're a race of godly descent and therefore we're superior? You're going to need a massive plan. And I found a little something that might just do it."

"And?" Isaiah's anger at her previous remark mellows down into confusion and slight interest.

"Well, you're going to need some major witch power for the biggest spell a race of Hecate had ever done. You're going to need a Coven."

* * *

You, Ros, come with me."

Larissa stops in her place, finger the straps of her shoulder bag as she spins on her heel and comes face to face with her Praetor. The shoulder bag slinging by her side is the size of an ordinary satchel and it has the weight of an ordinary satchel but with a few tinkerings, she had charm it to fit her whole tool box- three sledgehammers, an axe, a power drill and various other tools she might need.

Larissa might've appeared puzzled as Reyna continues on: "I want you to help me with the prisoners."

"Why me?"

"Because you're right here?" Reyna says this as if it should be obvious. "And of course, you figured out this device. I need you to be with me, in case you come up with something else." Reyna holds up the phone and presses it into Larissa's fingers. A certain warmth blossoms under Larissa's finger and her likeness to machines and the sudden need to figure the piece of metal out unfurls in her stomach. She begins to fiddle with the buttons.

"Um, of course…"

"I'll buy you a cup of coffee," Reyna offers, stepping forward towards the daughter of Vulcan. Despite her list of impressive achievements, the daughter of Bellona now espouse a friendly quality, which Larissa finds very disconcerting and too un-Roman like from the most Roman-like person she knows. Larissa doesn't know how to react- should she be friendly as well? Or keep that respectful Roman distance? Humans are always so _difficult_ to work with. At least with machines, she knows what's going to happen- if they're faulty, the reason is clear and obvious; either bad wiring or wrong coding but humans...well, they're a bit of a confusion. Maybe that's why Larissa prefers to spend most of her time tinkering with machines, like most of her siblings.

Larissa pauses. She could go for some caffeine right now. Last night, she fell asleep on her tabletop counter at four in the morning, halfway through an automaton because she got inspired about robot fencing dummies for the Legion. It's a good thing, though. She hasn't felt inspired since last May and had squandered most of her winter doing almost absolutely nothing except for cloud-shaped doodles until the idea hit her square in the chest.

"Um…" She shifts her weight tentatively from one foot to another. Reyna arch a perfectly plucked eyebrow; the sunlight, coming slant now through the west window, catches her hair, parted and drawn back into a neat plait. Larissa swallows, tucks in a loose hair that strings out from her ponytail. All Larissa wants to do is go back to the forge and work on those machines. Not spend more time with other life forms. "Sure. Let's go."

After Reyna cock her head at Larissa to follow her, they make their way out of the _Principia._ Campers had return back to their normal camp activities, the Third Cohort practicing their legion formations, the Second Cohort rebuilding their barracks, the First Cohort going through their marching drills while the Fourth and the Fifth are on their breaks. The events at the Senate seems to be erased from everybody's minds but Larissa doubts it. As she and Reyna stroll through, she could feel their gazes burning holes into her and whispers following her. She's willing to bet all her _denariis_ that everybody is talking about what happened behind their backs. Larisa watch as a bunch of Fifth Cohort members in swimsuits and towels head into a building with steam coming out of a row of chimneys. As Larissa passes, their smiles melt off and turn somber. Larissa's grip tightens around the phone. As she and Reyna disappear in the distance, laughter and watery sounds resounds and echoes from inside the Bath House.

"Where are the prisoners?" Larissa question as she scans the area for any unfamiliar faces or chained hands.

"I've texted Gwen to escort them to the Colosseum," Reyna says, as they enter _La Coffea_ and breathe into the enriching aroma of spicy cinnamon and ubiquitous coffee beans permeating the air. "We'll have to question them one by one. Frank and Chris also agreed to help."

"Are we going to-"

"No, we're not going to do it the Roman way," Reyna explain as she slams two Imperial Gold coins on the counter. "My mother had always abhorred the Roman technique of extracting information. Pain makes people afraid. They'll clamp up and tell us whatever we want to hear, not what we need to hear."

The girl is a militant and of professional personality, even though she looks no less than a few years older than Larissa. Reyna's stare is sharp and acidic enough to cut glass as she pulls her face into a thinking sequence, trying to find out the best way to dig out information. "But I think I have a way of getting some extra info before we resort to coaxing the prisoners into giving us information."

"How?"

"We'll need to visit the augary."

Larissa frowns as Bombilo the two-headed coffee merchant plops down their espressos. Larissa sips and immediately her eyes widen. Her head resembles the feeling as though she just inhale three dozen tonnes of sugar, which is to say she has descended into a state of frantically and alarmingly hyper. Reyna, on the other hand, blanches at hers and asks Bombilo if she could have another shot in hers.

"I practically survive on coffee. Perks of being Praetor, eh?" Reyna pulls a sour face as she stirs her coffee before gulping down.

"Huh, yeah," Larissa chuckle awkwardly and then mentally facepalm herself. _Why did I say that? I've never even been close to being a Centurion. How would I know?_

"It's tiring, sometimes," Reyna rubs her shoulder. She's not wearing her Praetor cloak and Twelfth Legion medallion anymore. Just a purple _UNR_ V-neck shirt and a pair of comfortable black tights and her Imperial Gold dagger strapped on a leather belt. Larissa knows that belt. She helped made it.

They fall into amiable silence as they walk the rest of the way to Temple Hill. A crooked stone path leads past a crazy assortment of tiny altars and massive domed vaults. Statues of gods seem to follow Larissa with their eyes.

On top of the summit, clouds swirl over the largest temple, a round pavilion with a ring of white columns supporting a domed roof. _The Temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus,_ Larissa thinks as she looks up at the grand structure.

They enter in. There is a hollow, sinister echo resonating across the room manufactured by the untimed, out of sync stampede of their shoes ringing across the room. Larissa's eyes focus on the way how the architecture is designed and her mind immediately goes to how she could design an automated roof canopy above the open dome when it rains _or_ some awesome laser-rays as extra security measures to guard the entrance _or-_

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Reyna murmur.

The marble floor is etched with fancy mosaics and Latin inscriptions. Sixty feet above, the domed ceiling sparkle gold. The whole temple is open to the wind. In the centre stands a marble altar, where a small, skinny, red-feathered harpy is nesting in a bed of books. She appears to be reading a massive leather-bound book.

"Larissa meet Ella," Reyna says as Reyna approach the harpy, "Ella meet Larissa."

"Larissa," the harpy squawks, ruffling her own feathers along with each book. "Roman girl with Greek name; a _nymph_ from Thessaly, daughter of Pelasgus and violated by him. Tragic ending."

Larissa blinks.

"Um."

"Oh sorry, Ella is like that. She's a harpy with an eidetic memory," Reyna says affectionately, "She can memorise anything she reads, which includes the destroyed Sibylline books."

As they approach Ella, Larissa notice Ella is painfully thin. Her feathery legs are like sticks. Her face would have been pretty except for her sunken cheeks. She moves in jerky birdlike twitches, her coffee-brown eyes darting restlessly, her fingers clawing at her plumage, her earlobes, her shaggy red hair.

"Cheese," Ella sniffs at Larissa, "You smell like cheese. Ella doesn't _like_ cheese." Her hands snatch at Larissa's hair, her burlap dress, the raindrops, whatever moved. She glances sideways at Larissa, then look up in the air and start reciting to the clouds. "Special girl, special prophecy. _Born beneath the new moon on the night of the shadowed death._ Death, the Grim Reaper, Master of Death, Harry Potter-"

Reyna inhales sharply, eyes alert, "Ella, what did you just _say_?"

"Master of Death, Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived. _Mr. and Mrs Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much-"_

"No, _before_ that. The prophecy." Reyna's gaze dart towards Larissa, "The one about Larissa."

Ella didn't pay Reyna any attention. She picks at her feathers and mutter under her breath, like she was practising lines for a play. Her eyes float upwards to Larissa and say again:

" _Born beneath the new moon on the night of the shadowed death,_

 _Comes the child, born of time, to be blown away in fate's breath,_

 _Parted in unison with the Triple Goddess Magi Prodigy,_

 _Comes a partnership that will doom the mortal world for eternity;_

 _Thus a new brethen of unlikely half-bloods are needed to rise,_

 _Along with other campers from Greece and Rome united side by side."_

Larissa's ears are ringing. She feels dizzy like she has just plunged a hundred feet underwater and back up again.

"This must be the prophecy Chiron was going on about," Reyna guess.

"And somehow it has something to do with me?" Larissa' hands shake. "Why?"

"You don't question prophecies," Reyna play with the straps of her holster. "But that doesn't matter. You were clearly meant to be here. Ella, I need to ask you something. Larissa, give me the riddle."

Larissa presses the phone into Reyna's hand. Reyna switches it on and shows it to Ella, who peers intuitively on the phone.

"Have you heard of it?"

"Shrouded in crimes too many, find order of the…" Ella trails off, thinking hard. Ella's forehead crinkle in scepticism, not repulsion. She must've heard weirder accounts. "Order of n squared? Big O notation. Order of Nine Angles, a satanic cult in the United States. Order of the Knight, Order of the Knight Hospitallers, Knights-"

Dread fills Larissa. "It's a play on word," Larissa realise, her teeth scraping her bottom lip. "The riddle- order of the n? Order of the Night, Order of the _Knights."_

The phone in Reyna's grip chimes. The device light up with a new message.

 _ **Bingo.**_

Reyna retreats. "How..."

 _ **There's a recording device hidden in this phone. If I were you, I wouldn't try to remove it.**_

"Meet us in person, coward," Larissa says to the phone speakers. "If you're so tough, see us."

There's no answer.

"Damn it." Despite the setback, an emotion- something akin to excitement flicker in Reyna's eyes. She plays with a golden **SQPR** band on her bracelet, indecisively fidgeting with the Camp Half-Blood pegasus bead looped on it. It spins round and round her bony wrist, like Larissa's turbulent mind.

"Well, I guess we have something now. Order of the Knights, huh? Seems like we have a lead on where our interrogation is going. Thanks, Ella." Reyna turns to Larissa, "Now come on, we can't waste any more time."

* * *

Again with more plot and fewer characters but it is needed to bring more interactions with our Supervisors and our fellow AntiHeroes! Next chapter will bring out Evelyn (yay!) and definitely delve into more of the AntiHeroes plan for world domination (big surprise). Anyway, please review and tell me what you think!


	11. 10

**0.10**

"Get in," A voice snarls. There's a rough push and she almost hit her head on the door's side. Stabilising her grip, Evelyn straightens up and throws her captor a harsh glare. Her captor is some eighteen-year-old girl; blonde hair, green eyes like grass and soft curves.

Evelyn grits her teeth but push her anger down and exhale thickly to calm herself down. _Lull them into security, lull them into security. Just like you did with Daddy dearest._ She lets out a childlike whimper, twists her lips into a _pity-me_ pout and the girl immediately softens, as if she felt like she just hit Bambi. _That's right,_ Evelyn makes it a conscious effort not to smirk.

"Sorry," Another boy puts in; he hasn't spoken a word throughout her trip from the Senate to the barracks. Evelyn reads his body; tentative stances, green eyes darting to the ground. Evelyn's lips curl. _Poor thing. He's shy._

Evelyn speechlessly nods, looking up with her large round, slightly hooded pale green-blue eyes. They're much softer with her this time, their hands place softly on her back to guide her into the barracks. The boy points out how her prison belongings- folded palls of orange jumpsuits and sparse amount of her old toiletries- had been neatly packed into the bedside cupboard beside the military-styled bed. The girl who accompanied him had left, saying she has duties to attend to.

"You should rest a bit," The boy advises her when the girl leaves. "Reyna will come to get you when she's ready to question you."

Evelyn nod, "Thank you," she twirls a lock of unruly blonde hair, the shackles around her wrists clinking together.

The boy shifts uncomfortably when he sees her legs and arms bounds. "Do they hurt?"

"A little," Evelyn admits, making sure she pours fear thickly onto her voice, "They're made out of fragnos; uranium and titanium fused together. They're meant to block out a demigod's ability so it stings to our touch."

"Really?"

Evelyn holds out her bound wrists. "Try it," she says in an innocent tone.

The boy hesitantly places a finger on the metal and hiss, recoiling at the slight sting the metal produce. "How do you get used to that?"

Evelyn's figure droop. "I don't know," she sounds emotionally drained, insecure, fearful. Evelyn knows despite her teenage age, she appears younger. She's sixteen but she knows she looks fourteen. The boy's eyes widen as if he couldn't believe such a sweet little girl could be treated that way. "I get used to it."

"That can't be…"

Evelyn smiles sadly, "It's fine."

"I can...make them a little looser if you want," The boy offers, "They gave me the key."

Evelyn palpably brightens. "You'll do that for me?" she bats her eyelashes, "You're so sweet!"

The boy's cheeks heat up, red spilling into them. "It's nothing...really. I mean, you're not too bad." _That's what you think._ The boy produces a key and inserts it into the small padlock in between the two cuffs, then proceeds to widen them a little before sealing it back shut. "There, a little better now?"

"Much better." Evelyn yawns, stretching her shoulders. Since her cuffs are now loose around her wrists, maybe she should try stretching out her abilities a little. Try something small and weak, like a dream sequence before she goes big. Then she'll work her way up, be finally powerful enough to break the chains and find her freedom. Hmm. "I think I'm gonna nap for a while. Is that okay?"

"Of course," The boy says. "I'll wake you up when Reyna wants to talk to you. I'm Santiago, by the way."

"Charm to meet you," Evelyn smirks. To the average eye, she just appears to be mischievous, a kind of elfin grin that seems harmless. Like a Hermes child. But to anyone who truly knows her knew otherwise. "I'm Evelyn. Evelyn Clearwater."

* * *

 _How to describe it?_

It isn't exactly a dream but it isn't as though she's dead.

Evelyn rises from her slumber, expecting to see the barracks, expecting the clinical sharp smell of Axe body spray to greet her but she appears to be lying on the black grass, breathing in the earthy dirt of the hard ground below her. She lifts a limb- her arm, no cuffs, no stupid fragnos, perfectly in control, and flex her fingers, wiggling them. Working just fine. She pulled herself upright, wondering where she is and where is everybody else.

Then she remembers. She's in a _dream_ sequence. She's lucidly dreaming. Her heart beats loudly in her chest. She couldn't believe it _worked._ For the first time since she's been captured, she's dreaming again. And she's perfectly in control.

Evelyn blinks the sleep out of her eyes. She begins to stand up and seize a good summary of all her surroundings. It looks like she was previously sleeping on the English countryside because everywhere is a landscape of rivers, low valleys and grassed ridges but instead of green and blue, it's black and grey, like a bleached-out black and white photograph of Yorkshire country. The water trickling over the mossy rocks of the river was a silvery, slimy grey-black snake, slithering away into the horizon. The grass below her is void of colour. It should've been dead but it rustles to the wind, humming happily as if it's alive.

Evelyn's rake down her body. She's wearing her church dress, the one she wears for Mass and Communion. She's surprised it fits her- the last time she wore it was when she was five before her stepfather found out about her abilities. The dress appears different, though. Instead of being its original black colour, it's grey with a frayed hem and the satin material drape all over her body in the cut of a sweetheart neckline and a fitted skirt, tattered and torn with gaping holes and knife slashes as if she's a survivor coming out of the shredder.

"Where am I?" she asks rhetorically, meandering along a path that wound through the pastures of empty land into a low flatter area of a river embankment.

"You'll find out soon," answers a voice from behind her. Evelyn freezes in her tracks, and she's sure she looks comical, eyes wide as she languidly turns on her spot. A woman with ice gold hair, pale sepia-tinted eyes is looking at Evelyn like she is greedily drinking in the sight of her- and with a startling tumble in her stomach, nerves uncoiling, Evelyn realises she knows the woman. The woman in pictures. The woman who gave birth to her. Her mother.

"Mum, you're…" _not dead? Didn't slit your wrists in front of me?_

"I am," her mother smiles wanly, answering her thoughts.

Funnily enough, no fear flits through her. Instead, a wave of serenity washes over her. "Really?" she tempts, like a child being promised McDonald's and not really believing it.

"Really." Her mother offers her a hand. It's welcoming, a gesture that makes a heaviness in her lift.

" _Don't."_ Another voice whisper in her ear. " _She's trying to lure you. She's not your real mother."_

Evelyn hesitates to touch her mother. If it even _is_ her mother, assuming the voice in her head is right. As a child of Morpheus, Evelyn had learned how to trust unknown voices inside her head. Or maybe she's going crazy. Or she already _is._ Crazy seems to be the most favourable option. There's nothing wrong with craziness. Some say there's a method to it.

" _You're not crazy. I'm somebody else, projecting myself into your thoughts."_

Somebody else?

" _Yep."_

"Evie?" Her mother prompts, her words are lilted with genuine kindness. But it's a little _too_ genuine like her mother is desperate for her to trust her like her mother depends on it.

"Yeah?" Evelyn bites her lip, faking cluelessness, trying to stall her mother.

" _She is a shade of her old soul, a mere memory. She's not your mother. The only thing she shares with your mother is her image."_

"Hold my hand," Her mother says, her face serene as moonlight reflecting on a river. "I'll guide you."

"Why don't you just...lead the way."

"What's wrong?" her mother question, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, sensing Evelyn's hesitation.

"Nothing!"

Evelyn curses her luck as her hand accept her mother's offer. Her mother's touch is cold and clammy like Evelyn is gripping an icicle. Her mother graciously walks her through the grey countryside. Below her feet, the grass and mud are squishy and wet, soaking Evelyn's barefoot with tea-coloured water, causing her skin to become dirty with mud and rainwater gathering in her nail beds. Evelyn looks up to the grey skies, shifting monotonously. Could it _rain_ in her dreams?

" _It's not the worse of your concerns. Watch your mother."_

Evelyn studies her mother. Her mother's hair is blonde, like hers, and her skin is pale but her lips and cheeks are colourless and grey, matching the sky and grass; a bleached-out black and white photograph. Obviously, a ghost, Evelyn notice with her powers of perception, fading yet crackling with energy from the force her mother exerts by pulling her through the troughs of the grey countryside.

Her mother leads her over a lung-busting ascent up a ridge. At the top hovers a billow of rolling, snaking fog so dense Evelyn is sure she'll disappear forever if she is to step into it. As her mother pull her away from the banks of the river, further down the other side of the ridge, the fog thickens. The silver sun fade into pale white gossamer. Moisture clings to everything, drenching her dress and beading on her skin. The temperature falls into a bone-numbingly cold. The path flattens and Evelyn almost feared she lost her mother in the fog until:

"Almost there," Maria Clearwater hums eerily. Evelyn almost trips against the ground, unable to see where she is stepping through the impenetrable mist. She squints and tries to watch for the uneven floor but her eyesight couldn't be trusted. She keeps stepping onto knee-deep bog holes, filled with mind-jarring icy cold water.

Evelyn follows her mother's muddy footprints, her mother's hand delicate and fragile over hers, and even though, the mysterious voice has warned her _not_ to listen to her mother Evelyn is glad another human is there next to her. If not, Evelyn is scared at the mere thought of being lost forever in the mist. The fog works like the dark, an impenetrable force, and Evelyn, after years of being chained underneath a dark basement, feels oddly reminded being there. Nonetheless, Evelyn likes the idea of company, despite how dangerous the company is.

Evelyn finds her voice, trying to make some kind of conversation in hopes of circumventing the danger the mysterious voice had told her about. "Where am I? Am I dead?"

"You're in Purgatory. The thin line of Dreamspace, where comatose mortals linger before they're confirmed to go to Hades's realm. It means I'm dead," elucidate her mother languidly with a misty quality floating around her flickering form. Her mother's fingers tighten around Evelyn's wrist possessively. Her mother looks over and smiles eerily. It doesn't reach her hard eyes. "And you'll be dead too."

Evelyn stops dead in her tracks, turning around slowly on her heels to face her mother with terrified eyes. "I don't-"

A growl of a black dog interrupts Evelyn. Her mother's clawed grip on her wrist shreds apart as the dog leaps up from behind her, emerging from the smoky shadows. Quicker than lightning and without any given warning, it's cavernous mouth consume her mother's misty figure with one effortless bite, it's thick, razor sharp canine teeth pulverising through the ghost's exterior. Her mother's ghost vanishes into dust, splattering yellow sulphur onto Evelyn's dress, legs, neck, hair.

The smell of stinking rotten eggs is the first thing Evelyn register before she could even digest anything else. There is a guttural grumble from a creature and within the lewd lunar strands of bog, stretching from the mist Evelyn distinguish a massive hunk of coal black fur dancing with the grey blur, then a pair of gleaming amethyst eyes appearing, looking expectantly at Evelyn as her jaw fail to close. Saliva drips hungrily from its monstrous teeth, which is stained with yellow dust and rusted blood. The dog pace around, circulating Evelyn as her heart skip several beats, eyes fixed on her like she is a chunk of meat it is ready to eat.

Suddenly, the fog around her dissipates and the grey countryside seeps into another background like paint on a blank canvas, but instead of fading into white paper, it transforms into lush green trees and a robin blue summer sky with fat clouds in shapes of disfigured animals cruising by. Around her, the trees and the valleys disappear into lone temples erecting from the horizons in the faraway distance of a mountainous landform The cold wind die upon Evelyn's cheeks and is replaced with the mellow heat of the sun shining against Evelyn's skin. The whole landscape completely changed. From the outskirts of London, Evelyn has been transported into another dimension, somewhere else in Europe it seems. But even though it's an utterly different place, it shares similar characteristics. The intense isolation, for one thing. Except for Evelyn and the black dog, there is nobody around for miles.

Evelyn presses a hand on her temple, befuddled, confused and puzzled with questions rushing towards her instantaneously. "Where- where am-"

"I told you not to touch the shade." It doesn't sound predatorial. It just sounds...annoyed.

"I'm- I'm sorry," stammer Evelyn, stepping back nervously, her bare feet sinking down in the warm grass. Not a wet and cold bog. "I didn't know what to-"

"It's fine; at least you are safe."

"Why are you here? This is my dream. You shouldn't be here." Evelyn reach out to stroke the dog's fur only to have the dog smack Evelyn's hand away with a stretched out paw.

"No, this isn't your dream," retort the dog critically, "It's your subconscious. Two different things, daughter of Morpheus. Didn't your father tell you? There's a difference between a lucid dream, which you control, and your subconscious, which has been lulled upon by another force. You were almost dead. And you _would've_ been dead if I haven't come in and saved you."

Evelyn searches the area, wondering for explanations how it changes so abruptly. "How did the-"

"It's because I destroyed your mother's shade, which was tied to the location and conjured by the Mist. Because she's gone, it's now _my_ choice of the decor and this is my domain." The way she says 'domain' is like how a king should say 'kingdom'.

"But…who are you?" Evelyn nearly chose the word 'what', but decide to go with 'who' because it's more polite. Besides, the dog just _ate_ her mother's ghost- shade, whatever. It's best not to offend it.

"I was the one talking to you inside your head," the dog nuzzle her legs to lurch her into motion, it's fur soft under Evelyn's skin. A contradiction to her mother's rough, calloused touch. "And I'm Hecate. Any more stupid questions, demigod?"

Hecate brought Evelyn to her home, which isn't too impressive for a two-thousand-year-old goddess, considering it's a tent hitch up on two dry wooden sticks with a linen cloth draped over it with straws decking out at the entrance of the tent. It doesn't even look strong enough to hold out winters for the mountain. Evelyn is expecting a fancy golden Grecian palace with peacocks flocking the entrance, gilded doors with bronze accessories, beautiful women in white silk and lapis lazuli and the like. Not a shabby tent in the middle of the European mountains

"Welcome to my humble abode," announce Hecate, the talking black dog, grandly. Humble abode _indeed._

"Wow," she examines the size of the tent. It appears to be the size of a sleeping cot for a cavalry soldier in World War I, cramped, tiny and unnecessarily small. "Are you sure we can both fit in-"

"Just go in."

Obediently, she lifts the straw doors and peeks inside. Her mouth drop and air fail to travel towards her lungs. Her stomach feels like someone just punched her because oxygen is literally knocked out of her as she steps onto the gleaming marble passageway of stone walls and strong Grecian-inspired pillars, which lead towards an arched double-door entrance and gas torches igniting green flames at her presence.

Evelyn floors. "How…?"

"Magic," The dog says in a tone that means _duh._

Hecate follows closely behind her but the dog is no more. In who stand at the lion's position is now shapeshifted into an intimidating woman with pale skin and amber eyes, her golden hair slicked back into a neatly woven braid with bronze clips holding her hair together. Evelyn blink. Hecate's form transforms once more- now a young girl, no more than twelve, in twin braids and a prairie dress. Evelyn blinks again. Now she's a middle-aged crone, with harsh dark eyes and coarse cocoa-skin. Just her presence alone is engulfed in a thick cloak of magic and the Mist. After a while, she solidifies into a young woman with dark hair in an Ancient Greek style high-set ponytail and warm brown eyes.

The Goddess carry two twin unlit torches, which gleams menacingly in the gauzy lighting. The handle is beaded magnificently with jewels such as lapis lazuli, emeralds, rubies and amethyst and entwined with vines and different branches of trees with magical properties. The Goddess's dress is strangely not of Greek fashion but a dark medieval ankle-to-floor length form-fitting bilout made out of flax linen and a cincture knotted over the abdomen. Her leather boots slap loudly against the mosaic floor, proclaiming to the whole place that their master is back.

"Around here," say Hecate promptly, beaming with pride as she journeys across the lonely passageway. A profoundly daunting feeling pretzels in Evelyn's trepidation as the torches' flames flicker from green to red, growing wider as the Goddess pass by.

They walk over the threshold of the arched entrance and enter a grassed pavilion with a fountain in the centre and black leather sofas encompassing the fountain in a U, which comes along with a glass coffee table and a blood-red rug. A fire burned in a slate fireplace. A stone granite bar is situated on the corner and a girl in the same type of medieval outfit- servant, most likely- is making beverages.

"Viviane," greet Hecate amiably, "Do you mind making something for me and my guest?"

Viviane feebly nods and resume her work. Coffee coloured satin fingers protrude out from her long-sleeved dress and they glow, enchanting a teapot to levitate.

"She's a witch."

Hecate laughs, "Obviously."

"Of course," Evelyn's mind piece together the puzzle, her head tilting up to digest the tall walls, which is decorated with tapestries depicting history from around the world. "Wow, you're uh- you're well-traveled."

Hecate leans back into the softness of the sofa, "You can say that" she sighs, looking at the painted image of Henry the VIII sending Anne Boleyn to her unfortunate death. "Children of Ares had always been cruel; especially to demigods of minor gods and goddesses. Anne didn't know what was coming for her."

"Wow," Evelyn says. "But...this doesn't seem like Greece?"

"No, it used to be part of the Greek Kingdom. We are on the Balkan Mountains, which used called Haemus Mons. It was part of the great kingdom of Thrace, where I had a popular following Now it's in modern day Bulgaria and Serbia but even then, the culture of occultism and witchcraft is still strong within this region.

"Home," Evelyn suggest inquisitively, eyes twinkling brightly with Hecate. Unlike other demigods, the daughter of Morpheus does not tremble in the presence of Celestial Beings. With a childlike manner, she approaches the Goddess. "Right?"

The Goddess smiles fondly as if bathing in the glow of old memories. Viviane pads over in quiet paces and bow as she gracefully set up the coasters and placed two glass of iced drinks. Viviane looks rather terrified as she pays Evelyn no heed to scutter back to the bar.

"She's been like this after a traumatic childhood event," explain Hecate. "She was a witch but she hasn't been the same after her family outed her for Witchcraft back in the 18th century. I took her in because…" Hecate pause to examine Viviane; the frightened deer-in-the-headlights expression that is a permanent fixture on her face, the jumpy movements, the hunched-over posture- as if Viviane is expecting somebody to hit her at any given movement. "I see a fighter."

Evelyn doesn't share the same opinion but she smiles sweetly and collect her drink. She takes a sip, just to test the flavour. Evelyn is immediately taken by the pungent taste of alcohol, wincing, but the ice refreshes her brain. The sweetness of the grapes and fig in the drink help tone down the potency of the alcohol content.

"Greek wine," elucidate Hecate, gulping down her drink in large gulps, causing Evelyn to fret. She sincerely hoped the Goddess had a tolerance.

"So...um…" Evelyn clears her throat as she sips again "Why am I here?"

"Right, you're probably wondering that." Hecate's fingers glow, willing the ice to swirl and churn on its own, "The thing is you're in Purgatory, also known as the Duat, Niflheim, Asphodel, depending on which Pantheon you're descended from. You were led here, by a force. More specifically, a mistake of mine."

Evelyn's head spin with questions and explanations- a contradiction, but life is full of contradictions. Naturally, "Okay," Evelyn nod, rubbing her temples as if hoping the action will make all her problems disappear. "So am I dead?"

"Halfway. You're _halfway_ dead," Hecate corrects. "This is the work of witches, a coven who used the Mist to pull you here and the Mist to conjure up a shade of your mother to lead you to Asphodel and then Tartarus. If she had taken you, you would've been a permanent member of the Underworld."

"But how?" Evelyn persists, losing the childish charm she often hides under. "I mean, this is _my_ dream and therefore, it's my domain. Children of Hecate shouldn't be able to intercept my control."

"True. But you were seeking out- and I answered, however, my children had intercepted our call and used it as a ploy to...uh decimate you."

"But it's still a dream. They're _your_ children, not children or Morpheus."

Hecate purse her lips. "And once again, demigods had been proven to be _so_ daft. I am Hecate, intrinsically ambivalent and polymorphous. I straddle conventional boundaries and eludes definition, and have minor control over each of the God's domain. I cannot create lightning, like Zeus, but I can wield it. I cannot create hurricanes like Poseidon but I can control it. Telekinesis, a common spell most children of Hecate can master, is a form of aerokinesis, to an extent. Even children of Hecate have shown the ability to pour insight in the future through divination, an aspect that seems entirely dominated by Apollo and his Oracles. So _yes,_ daughter of Morpheus, children can infringe on your domain despite their heritage."

Evelyn bite the corner of her lip. "So is there anything else I should know? Or did you just simply bring me here for a tour of your house?"

Hecate's face darkens. "You should know about the few witches who intercepted our connection; they'll be a foe you'll most likely to be worried about."

"But why?" Evelyn wonders, "What does that has to do with me? I'm just an imprisoned daughter of Morpheus."

"This has everything to do with you. The recent attack on Camp Jupiter, the attack on the Prison, the sudden shift from sporadic mortals' terrorist attacks...they're changing strategies. My daughter has a hand in this and I've been trying to tell you this, Daughter of Morpheus because your abilities and dreams make you a near prodigy. You have the ability to gain insight on their plans, which is why they make ultimate plans to eliminate you first."

Evelyn is dizzy. "Prodigy?"

"Demigod prodigies are rare," Hecate nod, "But it makes sense for us to have them. They usually show up in times of desperation, as the Fates will hand picked a few unlucky souls to possess unique qualities that are not seen within your usual demigod but are used to battle a great evil that will put the world in mortal peril. A good example is Frank Zhang, who appears to be your ordinary child of Mars but was gifted with the ability to transform into animals or Hazel Levesque, a daughter of Pluto who was also blessed with the ability of the Mist."

"Percy Jackson?" Evelyn wonder. Even she _heard_ of the guy, from the mutterings of Nico Di Angelo occasionally.

"No, just an ordinary son of Poseidon," Hecate laughs. "Big Three Children are naturally that powerful. He doesn't possess unique powers that are strange for children of Poseidon."

"And _I'm_ a prodigy?"

"Ordinary children of Morpheus can control their own dreams and use it as a tool of clairvoyance. They can also induce sleep and induce dreams of other people but they need to be asleep in order to be in touch with their subconscious for that to happen. You, on the other hand, can be awake, cognitively aware and induce hallucinations and dreams. I believe that was how you landed your stepfather in an asylum."

Evelyn set her jaw, a veil of hardened barriers falling over her face, but Hecate doesn't seem to mind that Evelyn was the reason why her stepfather went insane. Usually, people tend to freak out after that little tidbit of information and assume the worst. Evelyn knows, truly, deeply inside herself that she isn't as unstable as she lets on.

Evelyn Clearwater isn't insane. She isn't one of those who genuinely needs medication or sedation to calm them down; she ticks and breathes like a normal person. It's a fabrication, a persona she puts on due to the fact that she had crippled her father's mind into a state of terror, as an act of justice for the years of torture and experiments and electroshock therapy he had endured her through. But people didn't know that- or if they did, they're quick to connect the dots and assume she isn't right in the head. To be fair, Evelyn doesn't know if she's exactly sane or not but who does really? And what eludes the definition of sane exactly?

Evelyn knows who she is. She's the girl in heart-shaped sunglasses, who plays up her gamine, childlike frame in short school girl skirts and knotted white button downs. She'll twirls around a lollipop, bat her eyelashes and giggles and pretends to be off her rocker, of some sort of madness induced Lolita. It's all a fraud, and Evelyn knows she's a fraud, playing the crazy card but it's a defence mechanism. And after her stepfather, she needs all the defence mechanism there is.

Pretending to be mad is the most fun she had in _ages._ And it's a clever position to put herself in, Evelyn decides. People can't know how smart you are and therefore, they underestimate you. They think you're stupid. And playing dumb is the best thing ever. Really spices up the life.

"So I'm Morpheus's prodigy?" Evelyn muses.

"Speculatively so."

"And you're going to tell me that the bad guys have demigod prodigies too."

Hecate's eyes twinkle. "I'm not really allowed to say." The sky rumble. Thunder roar. Her throat muscles tighten. "As the Fates dictated."

"Who is it? Is it the Isaiah guy of the Celestials?

Hecate waves her away, "You'll find out yourself. After all, time will always tell the truth."

"But what do you mean by saying-" Evelyn say but before she could finish, Hecate's palace fade into thin air and her vision turns black.

* * *

 _ **FOUR MONTHS AGO**_

There is a bruise forming on her knuckles as Mckenzie Cordell drives it into the stomach of her opponent but it barely makes a dent as the boy skillfully ducks and counteracts with a good solid punch to the face. Mckenzie has taken her many hits before. It is her whole life- taking hits, fighting, punching, poison, killing- and it is her only purpose but still, it causes her to stagger in pain, head reeling, blood spurting into her mouth as her teeth unexpectedly bite her tongue from the impact.

She drops to the ground in a series of unceremonious stumbles, extremely ungraceful for somebody has been fighting since the tender age of seven, and prepares herself to launch back up to her feet. The first rule of combat-training: Never let yourself stay on the ground. But Mckenzie hears the ding! of the alarm symbolising that the fight is over and she has lost.

 _Damn it,_ Mckenzie swears wildly in her mind, panting, heaving into a stance where her hands lower on her knees. The sweat is dripping down her forehead in a torrent and the pain is still throbbing in her cheek, where his fist has connected to her mouth. Her opponent is a colleague of hers. Finnic Macduff, Son of Poseidon and despite Mckenzie's already stocky, athletic built, noticeably much larger than her, with his frame built like a refrigerator.

Jack London is displeased. "What the actual fuck, Mckenzie? That was absolutely disgusting. You're a daughter of Mars so what was that? Who teach you how to fight like that?"

Mckenzie grits her teeth and tries not to lose her cool in the eyes of her superior. No doubt Isaiah would kick her out of the Celestials if she was to gouge the eye out of one of his trusted advisors, as well friends since Jack has been by Isaiah's side almost as long as Erica had. Mckenzie despises her combat training. It is her weakest subject. She usually prefers when she has something in hand.

Nonetheless, even if it's her most subpar subject, she hates losing and she hates that it's her biggest weakness.

"He's bigger than me," Mckenzie defends herself, pointing to Finnic, and knows she'll be berated the instance she said that but Mckenzie is exhausted, cranky, moody and all she want to do was to is kill something. "He has an advantage above me, Jack-"

"Shut your mouth, Cordell!"

Mckenzie abruptly shuts up and clenches her fists to stop herself from lashing out.

"So what if he's bigger than you?"Jack Circles around and waves at Finnic, signalling his dismissal. Mckenzie folds her arm. "You'll meet opponents bigger than you, smarter than you and richer than you but you don't complain. We're preparing for something big soon, not little missions like before. You find a way around your enemies. Alienate his weakness then finish him. Understood?"

Mckenzie nods. "Yes, Jack."

Jack narrows his dark eyes at her. "You say he has an advantage against you? Might sound a little unconventional but you _can_ use your boobs."

Mckenzie rolls her eyes. "I'm not Lyra, Jack."

A shadow of a smile glosses over his face but Jack shrugs, "So? You're a girl. Use anything at your disposal. Hit him by the crotch. Rub against him. Hit him off guard. Sex is still a weapon."

The comment slaps Mckenzie and suddenly Mckenzie is conscious of her myriad of insufficiency, which is that she is a girl. "But-"

"I know it's outside your comfort zone," Jack interrupts firmly, softening, "But when it comes to a life or death situation, you have to think outside the rules. If we're going to succeed, you have to think outside the rules."

Mckenzie glumly nods and salutes him- as a sign of respect. "I understand, sir."

"Repeat what I just said."

"Think outside the rules."

"The other one."

"...use my boobs?"

"Yep."

"Thank you," Mckenzie says stiffly. "I'm glad for the advice."

"Not a problem, Kenz." Jack looks like he's on the verge of hugging her but Mckenzie would've been uncomfortable. It's weird.

Suddenly, there's a knock on the door. "Come in," Jack orders.

It's Casvel; a pale blob in dim lighting.

"Hey guys, Isaiah's requesting for a meeting. It's just gonna be the Inner Circle."

"We'll be over."

Casvel's boots tread softly against the wooden floor and promptly exits, leaving the lights of the training room on. Mckenzie wipes her forehead free of sweat with her hand and walks over to her plain black duffel bag where all her training essentials are located. Reaching into the bag, she snatches a power bar and peels off the wrapper reluctantly, sitting crossed-legged on the floor as she begins to eat the bar. The crumbs spew out of her mouth messily as she eats it, dusting it off her lap before taking it onto her shoulder and following Jack's lead out the door.

Windows fill the lobby with lights emitted from the skyline and the dying orange ember rays of the sun sinking below the buildings. They're in Chicago so it's no surprise to see hulking, massive buildings with glistening glass surfaces and asymmetrical structures in weird, impractical shapes. It is beautiful in a very modernist, minimalist way, plain with white, silver and grey but the real beauty lies behind the Metropolitan, where the sun looms in the distance, tinting the sky with blue, orange, red and pink.

The new office building they've acquired is a gift- more like stolen goods- from Lyra herself, who had 'borrowed' it from her parents on a cheap lease when the building is easily worth fifty-five million. She had enchanted it to appear like an abandoned warehouse undergoing urban decay, among the vistas of rotting nineteenth-century houses, the sides shored up with balks of timber and windows patched with cardboard and roofs with corrugated iron and crazy garden walls sagging in all directions and her magic is so powerful, it took her a full five minutes to realize that's it's actually a skyscraper piercing into the sky.

Isaiah immediately took up the liberty to refurbish the building; something inexplicably him with clean lines, airy interiors, white walls and simple steel furniture, which shows throughout the hallways as she and Jack head up the elevator and exits into the boardroom.

"Ah good," Isaiah says upon their arrival. "Now everybody is here, we can get started. Everybody take a seat."

* * *

 **DEFINITELY some heavy focus on evelyn there but felt like it was needed because she hasn't been featured much in a long time and her ability to control dreams was what i needed to add in more plot and background before we go back to camp jupiter where the questioning of the prisoners begin and members are picked. i want each different 'prisoner' to find their own connection to the quest and to isaiah and what's happening. i know the story is coming a little slow but when you have a cast this big and a person like me who doesn't want to leave any brilliant character unexplored, it's bound to have a slow plot.**

 **anyway, hope you enjoy and leave a review!**


	12. 11

**disclaimer: i don't own anything, except for the things i own obviously.**

 **0.11**

Being cuffed to a metal pole while sitting on a linoleum chair and waiting to be interrogated brought back memories for Roman Sokolov, ironically named in the sense that he himself is the _son_ of a Roman God.

Just feeling the smooth surface of Camp Jupiter's table reminded him of the time the Feds clamped down on his father's operations and the fleeting sensation of fear expanding in his chest when they interrogated him. It wasn't until he snapped his fingers and like all demigods belonging to this crazy world of Gods and Monsters, he manipulated the Mist to twist their minds.

His little neat trick with the Mist saved his and his father's asses, but it wasn't soon until Camp Jupiter caught wind of his activities of shooting up anybody who got into their way of dismantling the cocaine empire his father had built with his bare hands that they finally pinned him down and threw him into Katadiki to rot.

"You hungry?" Footsteps punctuate the peace and silence that had accompanied Roman before. The voice belongs to a girl. She is tall and blessed with the poise of a sword fighter—relaxed yet vigilant, as if ready to spring into action at any moment. Her slender features match her equally slender figure and her head is a long spill of dark hair as black and glossy as volcanic rock, woven in a single braid down her back. The worry lines around her eyes make her look older than she probably is. Reyna, the infamous daughter of Bellona, comes striding in, carrying a chunk of files in her arm with her terrifying gold and silver greyhounds following at her feet. "We can get you something to eat before we start."

"Nah, just too sober for this bullshit." He sends her a shit-eating grin, which doesn't faze her. The girl who faced Mother Earth herself will not be as easy to fool as the loser agents the FBI had sent to track his father down.

"Sorry, Camp Jupiter has nothing alcoholic." The edge in her voice suggests she's anything but apologetic. "So...Sokolov, it's been awhile since you have been here at Camp. What do you think of the new renovations?"

"I like the new fancy coffee shops. Very hipster, very Brooklyn."

"Sorry, we don't have anything that's reminiscent of Manhattan. Not all of us can afford Soho penthouses made from drug money."

"Nah, it's all cool. I'm easy to please." Roman is all wide smiles and bright eyes under her scrutiny. Despite her jabs and her sharp words, Reyna seems violently stressed out, rattled. She is shaken by the events, wrought with worry and concern about how people had bypassed the enchantments and magical barriers of the camp with such ease. _Interesting. Maybe you can get around this._

"I'm reminded that you are. Now," Reyna replies sharply, all business and no play. Ugh, he has forgotten how _unfun_ she was. "I'm going to ask a few questions. Remember to speak of the truth or Aurum and Argentum _will_ maul you. My dogs don't like liars."

 _And maybe not._

Roman roll his eyes, playing along. "I solemnly swear that the evidence given by me shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth."

"Relax, this isn't a court case. Just a light questioning." Reyna clicks the pen that she removed from the breast pocket of her V-neck and pull out a notepad.

 _Then what's with the goddamn third degree?_

Roman tighten his lips into a strange mixture of a sneer and a smile. He knows this game of cat and mouse- he has done it with those annoying goddamn feds. It's all passive-aggressive sarcasm, trying to get one on the precipice of anxious. It's not going to work on him. Besides, he _handled_ Reyna before. "Of course."

"What is your name?"

"Roman Sokolov."

"Your full name."

"Roman Daniel Sokolov."

Reyna looks indicatively at her dogs. The gold one, Aurum, nuzzle its nose into Reyna's thigh. She stroke it's head before returning to him. "You're telling the truth."

"You sound surprised."

" _You_ sound surprised."

Roman chuckle merrily, diffusing the sense of harsh tension within the two."You have a point."

"Good. Now we continue. What was your sentence?"

"Distributing drugs among campers," Roman recipes methodically. Reyna arch a sharp brow expectantly. "And murders of several Feds but that doesn't really matter."

Reyna folds her arms, inciting the imagery of an angry teacher on the verge of lecturing her student. _Here we go._ "Katadiki isn't a prison for demigod _crimes,_ Roman. It's a prison designed to hold demigods. Just because you murdered mortals instead of demigods doesn't mean it's not murder. That's the kind of 'it's them, not us' bullshit that sounds similar to racism; just because they're of mortal blood doesn't mean they're in any way less superior or any less important. You don't have to be related to godly beings to be any better; we're just different. It's like saying people who have relations to minor gods are less superior than those who are Big Three's children. It's not true. We regarded your crimes of murder the say way how we regard the murder of one of our own."

"Wow, inspiring. Real J.F.K level speech there. Almost as memorable as 'Four scores and seven years ago'."

"Stop fucking around, Roman," Reyna sigh, rubbing her temples with the tip of her pen. Poor thing; she could do with a line or two. "And let's get on. Shall we?"

"Your call, Princess."

Reyna sharply flips open another page. "So Roman, you're the son of Victoria, one of Rome's patron goddesses, and a son of a man who leads one of the world's largest crime syndicates, or more specially, the world leader in cocaine supply. Is that true?"

Why tried to deny it? "Yes; we're the Pablo Escobar of the 21st century."

Reyna aptly nods when Aurum confirm his truth by nuzzling its nose into her thigh once more. "Have you ever heard of a demigod crime organisation?"

"A crime organisation for demigods?"

"Yes." Reyna produces a thin device- blaCk, shaped like a smartphone but unlike any smartphone he has ever seen. It has no logo, no brand name, not even a serial number. Whoever made this must be a private benefactor, he gathers, which means they had access to some super-high-level connections to the American government. Only private agents working for the CIA or NSA would have that kind of phone. _"_ One of our campers had deduced that the clue sent makes reference to a crime syndicate. And when I think of crime syndicates, I think of you, Sokolov. So what do you know?"

"I don't know anything," Roman says simply. Aurum narrows its eyes and growls viciously. "Seriously, I _don't._ All the crime organisations I know are mortal ones; all mortal. Or at least, I think they're mortal."

Aurum reel back hesitantly, it's beady amber eyes watching him.

"Aurum says you're hiding something."

"Wow, that's a talent. You can speak Dog?"

Reyna cast him an annoyed glare, "So you're _sure_ there's not a crime syndicate tied to demigods? None at all? Not even mafias?"

"I'm not sure," Roman says honestly, "I only ever dealt with defaulters or informers or pesky federal agents. I've never been the one who made contact with other gangs or mobs. I mean, I know the Genovese controls West Side of Manhattan and buy our coke supply. We get our arms from them but we never cross territories. Don't want a war to break out. Dad always said it's bad for business so we didn't make much contact with other syndicates before."

Reyna pulls a thinking face. "So you're Dad's organisation don't really do business with other gangs in New York? And that none of them has linked to demigods?"

"Well, not that I heard of."

Reyna narrows her gaze into a squint, detecting the lie.

"Maybe a whisper," Roman's grin is full of sharks and knives and all the world's sparkly things. "Here and there. Gonna cost you for me to talk."

Reyna grips the slim handle of her sword so tightly her knuckles turn white. "Sokolov, I will literally set Aurum and Argentum on you and sit here merrily as they tear you to shreds."

"Go ahead," Roman mock, watching in mild fascination as Reyna's features seize up in irritation. This is far too fun. "Kill me. But guess what? You won't get your info."

Her dark byssal eyes remain fixated on him as if she's trying to extract secrets from his soul and for a compelling moment, Roman's almost tempted to divulge everything but he bit his tongue. Maybe it's some kind of weird magic, drawing him to spill everything. No, not until he gets what he wants.

"Fine," Reyna sets her jaw, clicking her teeth together. "What do you want?"

"Well first, I'd like to get these handcuffs off. And then I would like some whiskey. I take it straight, by the way. No mixer with ice. And lots of it, please. I'm pretty fucking thirsty."

Reyna lets out a laugh. "Um, no. The handcuffs are non-negotiable."

"Then I guess I'm not talking. Good luck with whatever you're doing."

Reyna clenches her fists. He could see the desperation in the tension of her shoulder. "Fine! I'll take off the handcuffs and get you your goddamn whiskey. But if you so much _try_ anything, I swear to God Aurum and Argentum will bite your head off. Understood?"

Roman lean back in his chair and smile wanly. "Crystal clear, sweetheart."

* * *

Winnie is dreaming.

Dreams cage her like an imprisonment of altered memories, a current of images so vivid she thought they were real. Winnie saw a dark-haired girl with cruel eyes and a smirk in a cloak and another boy- green eyes and curly brown hair in the same cloak chanting over a crystal ball.

And worst of all was her mother standing on an empty back road; the background behind was bleak and distorted into clumps of thick fog. A black Mercedes appeared at the end of the road. Headlights beamed ahead, illuminating the fear on her face. It started to gain speed, running towards her, and soon it was ten yards.

Five.

Three.

A bloodcurdling shriek arose, terrified and high-pitched. It belonged to her. Winnie was screaming at her to get away when lights shattered through the jagged pieces of the scene and broke apart her subconscious.

The room is sharply lit; the harsh, incandescent jets of lights pierced into her eyes as she blinked awake. She didn't recognize the place. The sun is out, for once, and the sky is robin blue. She groans as the walls swayed and dark spots danced in her field of vision. She works her fingers, wiggled her limbs out of hibernation and used her elbows to prop herself upright.

"Had a nice night?"

It's a girl. She's sipping from a champagne bottle, her dilapidated form is lounging lazily on one of the chaise chairs as she scrolls through her phone. The view of her sharpens with harsh colours. With voluminous raven hair piled up into a loose beehive, a perfectly sculpted ski-jump nose, a figure-hugging strapless white dress and an ornately sequined red matador cape flung casually over her milk-white shoulders, she looks like a movie star. A cigarette flagrantly dangles out of her mouth, despite the flammability of its structure. She looks really familiar and Winnie couldn't match her face to a name in her memory until she realizes the girl has the same cruel eyes of the girl in her dreams.

Winnie is flummoxed. "Who the fuck are you?"

"A simple 'good morning' would be sufficient," The girl tsks, "And what a shame. Don't you remember me?"

"Don't be coy, Lyra," Another voice interjects. Winnie's head snaps towards the voice in alarm and nearly topple out of her bed. A boy enters the room through the open threshold, daintily holding a tea jug with the palm of his band by the bottom and with his two slender fingers by its glistening porcelain handle.

Winnie gape at him. "I know you! I saw you...at the party. You're-"

"Will," he finishes pleasantly.

"But how did I-? Where am I?"

"You're in a hotel room, sweetie," Lyra answers, sickeningly sweet. The way how Lyra's eyes are wide and ever so slightly creased at the corners, as if she knows a secret you'll never catch on, makes Winnie uneasy.

Winnie's memories are a blurry haze- all she remembers is the party, bits and flashes of drinks, Will, Michaela, then a bathroom and all-consuming darkness. Panic begins to encroach her. She looks at her body for signs; she's not wearing clothes she recognizes. Oh God, oh no. Has she been... wondering if she's been…

"It's not what you're thinking," Will interrupts her train of thought as if he could read her mind. "I swear, we're harmless. We just need a chat."

A strangled sound disparages out from Winnie's throat. "You- you drugged me! I barely know you two and you drugged me and you brought me here in this nondescript hotel-"

"Oh please, 'Four Seasons' is _hardly_ ever nondescript," Lyra waves her cigarette dismissively, "Besides, I don't think I'm a _complete_ stranger to you."

"Lyra, stop it," Will admonishes hotly. "I don't think she knows _anything_ about demigods."

Winnie feels like her head is about to explode. "Demi- _what?"_

Will sighs, rubbing the sides of his head, and turn to her. He seems relatively kind and endearing, despite the situation. "Winnie, I think it's time somebody gave you a talk."

* * *

Roman sips on his whiskey freely, bathing in the freedom of being unshackled as the alcohol slides down his throat like a river of pure heat. God, it's been so long since he had alcohol. He can't wait till he gets out of here and returns to his favourite thing in the world- coke. He knows it's addictive and he knows it's bad but it just hits that sweet spot _so_ good and makes him feel invincible, confident...like he can do anything in the world. He closes his eyes and takes another gulp, savouring the gasoline.

"So Reyna, what do you want to know about demigod crime syndicates?"

"Well, first of all, is there even such a thing?" question Reyna professionally, "And if there is, how many are there?"

"Well, I don't know how _many_ but I've heard of one or two mafias that are purely made out of demigod members. They're mostly former rebels from Gaea or Kronos's armies from the past wars...or they're just random demigods who are willing to fight or kill any magical being for a quick buck or two."

Reyna's eyebrows knit in confusion. "But I thought all the rebels had been rounded up and locked up in Katadiki."

"So?" Roman shrug, "Some have managed to slip under your radar and stuff...all I know is _yes,_ there are some demigods who have been taken in by these syndicates and mafias. They're the demigods who either a) don't believe in the goody-two-shoe bullshit of Camp Half-Blood and Camp Jupiter or b) don't know any better. I've come across one or two demigod mafia members before but I never been close to joining or whatever." _Dad would kill me for infringing my loyalty codes._

Reyna inhales deeply and fidgets with the holster for her Imperial Gold dagger. "So demigod mafias existed."

"Yeah."

"Okay. Is there a demigod crime syndicate called the Order of the Night?"

"Wait, Order of the _Night_ or Order of the _Knights?_ As in silent K knights?"

"The one with the silent k," respond Reyna immediately.

"Yeah...but they're...an ancient mafia. They were famous, not just to the demigod world but to the mortal world as well. They used to influence all the political royal families to do their bidding but that was back in the fifteenth century. I don't even think they exist anymore."

"So?" Reyna snorts, "Greek Gods existed two thousand years ago and they're still here."

"But...their location of business was in Italy; more specifically, Malta," Roman finishes, remembering the research he had undertaken in his spare time. His father has always looked up to the Order of The Knights, who were so powerful during the Italian Renaissance that they could even force the hand of the Pope. "No offence but I don't get how an ancient medieval Italian mafia has something to do with what's going on _now."_

Reyna taps her fingers on the table, her nails clattering loudly. The sounds echo through the interrogation room. "Actually, that makes sense. This Isaiah guy wants us to find him an artefact. I'm guessing this is an artefact that has something to do with the Order of the Knights." Her eyes widen. "Holy shit, that's it!"

"What's _it?"_ Roman swirl his whiskey and takes a long, thirsty sip, slightly bored and wondering when he could go. After all, he already did his part. He told her everything he knew. And _yes,_ he's being honest (shocker).

"We have to look for an artefact that has something to do with this mafia, Order of The Knights. Where did you say this organisation is?"

"You mean, _was,"_ he corrected her, "It doesn't exist anymore."

"Bullshit," she dismisses confidently, a smile beginning to worm onto her face. It's the first smile he had seen on her since she has been here. "You said their area of operation was in Italy, right?"

Roman nod, tipping back his glass. Only ice is left. Damn it. "Yep, Malta especially."

Her eyes glint crazily in excitement. A beeping sound shatters the silence of the room. Reyna retrieves out a black device- the phone that was parachuted down into Camp Jupiter. Roman's gaze flicker towards the device's screen. It has a new message. And it's from Isaiah.

 _Guess you finally worked out where you have to go. See you in Malta._

* * *

"So demigods...are _real?_ And the Greek Gods exist? And I'm somehow one of you?"

Lyra folds her napkin delicately then toss it away. Somehow, Lyra and Will had convinced her to take their conversation down to one of the cafes opposite the hotel. Their booth is in the far back corner of the shop, in an alcove that isn't easily visible from the front, and no one is around so their antics will not draw too much attention. "Pretty much."

"You're crazy. Both of you. You need to see a shrink, like now. This is the real world and things like that don't happen."

A silence ensues, a weighty stillness that settles in the space between them and so thick it could cut the room in half.

Will links his fingers together, "I'm sorry, Winnie. But it's _true._ The Greek Gods are real, everything from the Greek myths exists."

Winnie gawks at Will, waiting for all of it to be a joke.

…It _has_ to be.

She didn't even believe in religion! Everything is simply preposterous- even in contradiction towards her father's profession and specialisation in the occult. She has always preferred reason over faith- hence her journalism degree- which is why she doesn't believe in an omnipotent and benevolent higher power. She has never bought into the whole Christian belief of how Jesus is her saviour, much less this circus freak show of _Pagans._

"Myths aren't real," Winnie scoff in corresponding incredulity. "There's a reason why they're called myths."

Lyra and Will exchange a look. "Show her," Lyra encourage.

Will's lips twitch. "Watch this." Will hold out his hands and mumble something Winnie didn't catch, then his fingertips glow and Lyra's napkin lifts itself midair and begins dancing while levitating. After a while Will telepathically enchant the napkin to return back to the table.

Winnie is speechless, her whole belief system crumbling. She has lived her whole life learning about mythology and the occults under her father but she also knows how to separate what's palpable and what's not. Though after what she's been just shown, everything she thought is right has been thrown out the window. She's not entirely sure of what to think anymore.

"Wyn- can I call you Wyn?" Lyra asks placidly, ending her train of thought. "Magic is real. And you can keep telling yourself gods aren't real but it isn't going to make it go away. The Greek Gods are powerful, temperamental and are part of a civilization that has lasted for thousands of years. The memory of this civilization is solely the reason why we have survived so long. They had invented amazing things and conquer vast lands. People who believed in them didn't make them up; they're not that stupid. Anyway, coffee?"

Winnie ignores the offer of coffee. "Okay so let's say- let's just say- gods-" It even sounds odd to say it aloud, "- these Pagans do exist and they're somewhere in this world." Her voice breaks a bit, "W-what does it have to do with _me_?"

Lyra's smugness might be one of the creepiest things Winnie had ever come across. "Well, that's the golden question, isn't it? I've got a bit of a hunch, Wyn. And I feel like it started back where you were born. Where are you from?"

"Um, Massachusetts?"

"Specifically."

"Salem. Salem, Massachusetts."

"Of course it is," deadpans Will.

"Time for a road trip," Lyra announces, whipping out her phone. "We'll take the Chrysler."

Winnie put her hand out in surrender, appearing thoroughly confused- a feat considering their conversation just a few minutes ago. "I'm sorry, _we?"_

"Yes, what about it?" Lyra looks at her as if Winnie is trying to be stupid on purpose.

"Um, I'm a college student. I have _classes_ and a _life_ and a _girlfriend."_

"Oh honey, I can take care of that," Lyra laughs. She snaps her fingers. "There, you've never existed in their records."

"Wait, _what?"_

"Winnie, you just found out you're a part of a magical world and the first thing you want to do is jump straight into college life?"

Winnie registers Lyra quizzically, "Um, yes?"

Lyra sighs and focuses her stare on Will, "She needs to get her priorities in order."

"I'm right _here."_

"You were meant to hear that. Now come on, Winnie," Lyra lick her lips, wetting them, "Don't you want to find out who you truly are all along?"

* * *

"Straighter, come on."

Juliana hardens her grip on the sleek barrel of the rifle and levels her arms further up as she squints at the target fifty feet in front of her. Then she pulls on the trigger. "Fuck," she mutters under the breath as she missed the bullseye by the margin. "I hate this. Why can't we fight with _normal_ weapons? Like swords?"

"We live in the modern age," Daewon Kim, son of Mars, explains stiffly, brandishing his own rifle- an M16. Daewon paces around the space before he focuses silently behind a target and shoots; it's swift, efficient and precise- three bullets lodge itself at the centre of the dummy, right at its heart. _Alright, we get it,_ Julianna thinks, ticked off. Not at Daewon. Mostly herself. "It's time we start to learn how to adapt."

"But we're Greek demigods?" Chris points out rather obviously. As Reyna and the others- mostly Nico, Frank and Chiron- are currently undergoing an emergency meeting right after the interrogation of the prisoners, she and Chris were given the special treatment of having a little detour around Camp Jupiter. Which Juliana thought was a complete lame way of saying _okay, you kids go run along and play while the big guys discuss very important world-threatening stuff bye-bye._ It's unfair, condescending and not to mention, belittling. It's like they think she and Chris are a bunch of twelve-year-olds who couldn't handle being in mature meetings. She's almost eighteen for Hades's sake- that's only four years younger than Reyna.

Nonetheless, the tour results in them checking Camp Jupiter's newest facilities, one of which happens to be a cool target range and an indoor military assault course. As Juliana marvels at the massive rifle and machine gun collections displayed upon the built-in racks, she mentally notates to herself to restock on their automatic machine gun collection for the Ares cabin.

"That's not the point," Daewon counters, quite patiently. Julianna's surprised. Daewon had said he was a son of Mars but he's _nothing_ like the boys from Mars' Greek counterparts. Most of Julianna's siblings are bloodthirsty, violence-driven meatheads who have no appreciation for things such as patience. So far, the vibe she has gotten off Daewon is silent, reserved and mature. She first thought he was a son of Minerva or something. "As fighters, we have to learn to make do with what we have, right? So yeah, traditionally swords and daggers have been the way we fight. But as an American in the 20th century, you have to learn how to shoot a gun."

"Besides," Julianna grin at Chris in the attempt to lighten the mood, "Aren't you a Republican?"

Chris appears affronted, the splash of freckles on his nose and cheeks becoming more prominent under the lights of the target range. "Okay, just because my Dad is a pastor, does _not_ mean I'm a Republican. And by the way, I'm _for_ gun control and I'm very liberal. I'm actually bisexual-"

"Let's not get into any arguments concerning your political affiliations," Daewon interrupts firmly, "And focus on picking up skills that might be useful in ensuring your survival. Chris, why don't you try giving it a go?"

"Me? You'll trust me with a gun, seriously?"

Julianna tucks in a wayward strand of her dark curly hair behind her ears and stifles the urge to roll her eyes. This guy is just too much. "Yes, oh my god. What is the worst can happen?"

"Are you seriously asking that?"

"We're wearing bulletproof vests," Daewon supplies, pointing at his chest. "You might be natural at it, you never know."

"I'm a natural at sucking, if that's what you mean, but _okay."_ Chris marches over to Daewon, who gingerly passes him the rifle. Julianna quickly switches her gun controls to safety as she steps back and allows Chris access to her spot. She notices his hands shaking.

"You'll be fine," she assures him kindly, taking a tone that's similar to when she's comforting one of her crying siblings after he had hurt himself. Chris doesn't look any more confident but he nods at her.

"Try this one if it's your first time," Daewon advises as he treads over to the wall of guns. He retrieves one, an old-fashioned Mauser with a gold-plated shortened barrel and a white ivory case over the grip. It looks like something out of a museum, especially with the Germanic oak leaf and acorn pattern engraved on it.

Julianna scrutinises further before the realisation dawns upon her. Her intrinsic knowledge on weapons as a child of Ares kicks in. "Oh my God...I know this gun. It used to be owned by a son of Ares."

"Close," Daewon confirms for her. "He was actually a son of Mars."

"It's...one of the most iconic guns of the 20th century," Julianna says, "It...well, it belonged to Göring."

Confusion mars over Chris's delicate white boy features. " _Who?"_

Julianna wants to hit him at the back of his head. "Are you retarded?'

"I don't think it's politically correct for you to use that term-"

"Oh my God, it's basic World History! It belongs to Hermann Göring; he was Hitler's right-hand man and one of Germany's best sharpshooters during World War Two! Even though he fought for the worst reasons, well...he did accomplish a lot of great things," Julianna admits reluctantly, "Like he was a horrible man, yes. But great? Definitely."

"Depends on how you define greatness," Daewon says, "But yes, this is one of history's most famous guns. Despite its small size, it was rumoured to be extremely efficient. It's semi-automatic so it's also perfect for machine gun situations as well as snipers."

"So...what you're saying this was a gun who belonged to a very famous Nazi?" Chris summarises.

"If that is all you got from that, then yeah pretty much."

"Well…" Chris trails off uneasily, adjusting the gun in his grip. Even though he's fidgety and uncomfortable, Julianna realizes he kind of look... _right_ with the gun in his hand. Usually, guns are like swords. Either they're too heavy, or too light, or too long, but this gun seems to belong in Chris's hand. It's how she felt with her sword, _Runner_ \- the one her father has given her on her sixteenth birthday. "I guess I can give it a try."

"Do you want me to help you?" It blurts out of Julianna's mouth before she could restrain herself. _What the fuck?_

Relief washes over Chris; it floods all over his face and the anxiety drains out. "Yeah, that'd be great."

Julianna steps closer towards him. She could feel the heat coming from his body as she mirrors his stance. He's not much taller than her- just by a few inches- so his chin meets her nose and she tries not to dwell how small the distance between them. Or how awfully blue Chris's eyes are- they're so deep-set that his eyelashes touch the skin under his eyebrows, and they are dark periwinkle, a dreaming, sleeping, waiting colour. _What am I doing? This is not me._ Julianna shakes herself out of her reverie and clears her throat awkwardly.

"So okay, first steady the gun and focus on your target." She reaches out and grabs his arm, guiding them up.

"Yeah, and?" Chris prompts her to continue on.

"Then well, you aim, steady your hands, firm up your muscles and shoot." Following her instructions, his finger rests on the trigger before he inhales deep and presses hard. The gun goes off in one loud single blast and in a dust of gunpowder, a bullet launches itself out and plants itself into the dummy's heart. The familiar scent of artillery shell wafts into the air.

For a moment, everybody is too stunned to speak. Everyone just stood, frozen in a mixture of shock and awe.

"Holy...shit," Chris chokes out, staring at his own hands, then the gun. "Did I just-"

"That was incredible…" Daewon scratches the corner of his head. Even _he_ 's caught off-guard. He looks at Chris with brand new eyes. "Chris, what the hell was _that?"_

"I really don't know…" Chris swallows, lips parting and revealing a pristine row of teeth in the muted darkness. He glances at Julianna. "Maybe it's Julianna? I don't know; I'm usually quite useless."

"Well, it appears you're not _that_ useless," remark Julianna. Surprise tinges her eyes, which morphs quickly into grudging admiration, meeting pale blue as she nods her head in validation towards him.

Chris is not too convinced. "Yeah…"

"Try it again," Daewon suggests. This time, Chris doesn't wait for Julianna's instructions. His body naturally aligns himself with a proper position and his face screws up in concentration. Pressure applies to the trigger and then that hair-raising sound. _Bang!_

Bullseye, once more.

Suddenly, a commotion erupts behind them. They turn around simultaneously, only to find Leilani Kehala, arriving into the target range, looking worried. She's breathless, panting heavily as she slows down in her sprint. "Guys, guys, Chiron, Reyna and Nico need you at the Principia. Now."

Julianna blinks. "Wait, _all_ of us?"

"No, just you and Chris. They said it's for the quest. Oh, and Mars- I mean, _Ares-_ is here."

Dread settles at the bottom of Julianna's stomach.

Oh no.

* * *

 **ha i'm alive! anyway, this chapter is finally written. please review xx they warm my HEART**


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